EDITH; 


EDITH; 


THE     LIGHT     OF     HOME, 


BY   ELIZA  B.  DAVIS. 


'  Oh,  how  much  more  doth  beauty  beauteous  seem, 
By  that  sweet  ornament  which  truth  doth  give  !  " 

SHAKSPEARE. 


BOSTON: 

CROSBY,   NICHOLS,    AND    COMPANY, 

111,  WASHINGTON  STREET. 

1856. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1855,  by 

CROSBY,   NICHOLS,   AND   COMPANY, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


BOSTON : 

PRINTED  BY  JOHN  WILSON  AXD  SO.V, 
22,  SCHOOI,   STREET. 


EDITH. 


CHAPTER    I. 


"  Like  the  daystar  in  the  wave 
Sinks  a  hero  to  his  grave, 

'Midst  the  dewfall  of  a  nation's  tears. 
Happy  is  he  o'er  whose  decline 
The  smiles  of  home  may  soothing  shine, 

And  light  him  down  the  Tale  of  years ; 
But,  oh,  how  grand  they  sink  to  rest 
Whose  eyes  are  closed  on  Victory's  breast!  " 


"  OH,  Mrs.  Courtenay  !  mamma !  do  look  from  the 
window,  and  see  this  beautiful  ship  coming  up  the 
Thames !  Do  you  hear  the  salute  from  Tilbury 
Fort  ?  But  her  flags  are  not  flying  where  they 
usually  are ;  they  are  half-mast,  I  believe :  what  is 
the  reason  ?  "  These  inquiries  were  made  by  a  girl 
twelve  years  old,  as  she  watched,  from  the  window, 
the  busy  scene  on  the  river.  She  paused ;  for  low 
sobs  from  the  lady  she  addressed  arrested  her 
attention ;  and,  as  she  turned  towards  the  sofa,  she 
saw  Mrs.  Courtenay,  pale  and  agitated,  trying  to 
support  her  half-fainting  form  against  the  pillow 

which  rested  on  the  couch. 

1 


2068415 


EDITH  ; 

With  the  quick  instinct  of  filial  affection,  connect- 
ing the  ship  with  her  absent  father,  she  exclaimed, 
"What  is  the  matter?  Papa!  papa!  —  what  of 
him  ? "  Mrs.  Courtenay  drew  the  alarmed  child 
towards  her,  and,  folding  her  in  her  arms,  said,  in  a 
low  and  solemn  tone,  "  Edith,  that  ship  bears  all 
that  remains  to  you  of  your  father.  He  fell  in 
Canada,  in  the  recent  struggle  with  the  United  States, 
as  a  soldier  should  die,  fighting  bravely  for  his 
country.  You  know  your  father  served  under 
Gen.  Vincent,  at  Fort  George :  it  came  into  the 
hands  of  the  Americans,  and  your  parent  was  among 
the  wounded." 

Edith  lifted  her  pale  face  from  the  bosom  of  her 
kind  friend,  and,  bursting  into  a  torrent  of  tears, 
exclaimed,  "  I  am,  then,  alone  in  the  world,  —  an 
orphan ! " 

"  Not  alone,  dearest  Edith :  are  not  my  husband 
and  myself  still  your  guardians  and  friends  ?  Be- 
lieve me,  my  child,  we  shall  try,  by  every  tender 
and  affectionate  attention,  to  supply  to  you  the  parents 
you  have  lost.  Are  not  my  children  like  brother 
and  sisters  to  you?  I  do  not  wish  to  check  the 
indulgence  of  your  sorrow,  —  it  is  what  nature  de- 
mands for  the  father  who  has  been  taken  from  you ; 
but  I  hope  the  time  will  come  when  I  shall  again 
see  you  the  happy  Edith  you  have  been.  You  must 
try  to  bear  this  affliction." 

"  Oh,  never,  never  can  I  be  happy  again !  My 
noble  father  dead !  —  he  whom  I  loved  so  fondly. 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  3 

His  remains  even  now,  you  tell  me,  have  been  per- 
mitted by  government  to  be  brought  home  for  inter- 
ment. And  I  never  to  look  upon  him  again  !  How 
can  you  talk  to  me  of  ever  being  happy  again  ?  I 
am  fatherless,  motherless  !  " 

Mrs.  Courtenay  saw  the  uselessness  of  reasoning 
with  her  young  charge  ,•  and,  begging  her  to  rest  on 
the  sofa,  she  gently  covered  her  with  a  shawl,  and, 
placing  herself  near  her,  watched  her  anxiously,  until 
nature,  exhausted  by  the  intenseness  of  her  grief, 
found  relief  in  profound  repose.  Mrs.  Courtenay 
sat  by  the  couch  of  the  afflicted  child,  gazing  with 
earnestness  upon  her,  as  she  remained  for  some  time 
unconscious  of  the  sorrow  which  had  thus  suddenly 
shadowed  her  happiness,  and  which  she  well  knew 
would  return,  in  all  its  bitterness,  when  she  awoke. 
An  almost  impassive  calm  was  on  the  features  of  the 
sleeping  girl  for  an  hour ;  the  lights  and  shadows 
which  so  often  played  about  her  intelligent  face  had 
departed ;  a  quiet  and  almost  holy  serenity  sat  on. 
her  brow. 


EDITH  J 


CHAPTER    II. 


"  And,  as  she  trod  her  path  aright, 

Power  from  her  very  garments  stole ; 
For  such  is  the  mysterious  might 
God  grants  the  upright  soul." 


MR.  COURTENAY  was  an  American  by  birth,  but  had 
spent  many  years  in  England  in  mercantile  pursuits. 
He  was  a  man  of  a  noble  nature,  high-spirited,  and 
strongly  attached  to  the  land  of  his  birth. 

In  one  of  his  visits  to  England,  he  became  ac- 
quainted with  a  clergyman's  family  of  the  name  of 
Percival.  The  rector  of  a  church  in  Kent,  Mr. 
Percival  lived  in  comparative  affluence,  and  had  been 
blessed  with  two  daughters,  ore  of  whom,  Ellen,  had 
attracted  Mr.  Courtenay  by  the  charm  of  manner,  and 
refinement  of  conversation,  which  had  made  her  a 
general  favorite.  They  formed  a  strong  attachment 
to  each  other,  and,  at  the  period  our  narrative  com- 
mences, had  been  married  many  years. 

Mrs.  Courtenay  was  one  of  those  somewhat  rare 
characters,  a  finished  lady,  possessing  all  the  virtues 
which  could  adorn  a  woman  in  the  most  exalted 
sense  of  the  word.  She  had  been  educated  in  France, 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  5 

where  she  acquired  many  accomplishments  less  com- 
mon in  the  days  of  her  youth  than  at  present ;  had 
an  opportunity,  during  her  residence  in  a  convent, 
to  cultivate  a  naturally  fine  mind,  and  gain  that 
polish  of  manner  so  peculiar  to  the  French. 

Mrs.  Courtenay  never  forgot  the  courtesies  of  life, 
or  the  dignity  which  belonged  to  her  sex.  Tender 
in  feeling  towards  all  who  needed  sympathy,  indul- 
gent to  the  erring,  forgiving  towards  the  wayward, 
she  seemed  the  very  spirit  of  kindness.  Her  charity 
was  diffusive  as  the  sun.  She  relieved  the  wants  of 
the  needy  far  more  liberally  than  many  whose  ability 
to  do  so  was  greater.  A  tale  of  distress  never  fell 
unheeded  on  her  ear.  Her  noble  heart  warmed 
towards  the  Buffering.  Her  purse  opened  to  the  des- 
titute, and  her  words  comforted  the  sorrowful. 

In  the  house  of  the  Courtenays,  peace  reigned. 
Mr.  Courtenay  was  a  devoted  husband,  an  affection- 
ate father,  the  sunbeam  of  his  home.  He  was  loved 
most  tenderly  by  all ;  perhaps  more  intensely  from 
the  circumstance  of  his  being  at  times  obliged  to  visit 
the  United  States,  leaving  his  family  in  England. 
The  shade  which  rested  upon  his  household  during 
his  absence,  deepened  by  a  consciousness  of  the  dan- 
gers to  which  he  was  exposed  in  crossing  the  Atlan- 
tic, made  him  of  course  doubly  dear;  and,  to  his 
children,  no  joy  was  equal  to  the  announcement, 
"  Papa  has  arrived !  " 

Mr.  Gourtenay's  residence  was  in  the  quiet  town 
of  Milton,  on  the  banks  of  the  Thames,  directly 

1* 


6  EDITH  ; 

opposite  Tilbury  Fort,  so  renowned  for  the  visit  of 
Queen  Elizabeth,  when  she  took  leave  of  her  admi- 
rals and  other  officers  ere  they  embarked  to  meet  the 
"  Invincible  Armada." 

Mrs.  Strickland  says,  "The  day  on  which  Eliza- 
beth went,  in  royal  pomp  and  martial  array,  to  visit 
the  camp  at  Tilbury,  has  generally  been  considered 
the  most  interesting  of  her  whole  life.  Never,  cer- 
tainly, did  she  perform  the  part  of  the  female  leader 
of  an  heroic  nation  with  more  imposing  effect  than 
on  this  occasion."  The  situation  of  this  fort  was 
beautiful  beyond  description  :  its  front  stood  proudly, 
with  its  strong  bastions  overlooking  the  Thames ;  a 
heavy  sea  wall ;  powerful  guns,  presenting  an  appear- 
ance so  impregnable  as  seemingly  to  threaten  defiance 
to  every  thing  which  might  dare  approach.  This 
strength  and  power  were  beautifully  relieved  against 
its  groves  of  oaks,  "  old  as  time,"  its  hawthorn 
hedges,  and  smiling  plains. 

The  view  from  Mr.  Courtenay's  house  was  of 
course  very  lovely,  combining  so  many  objects  of 
interest,  and  animated  by  the  ships  which  constantly 
passed  to  and  from  London.  Between  the  house 
and  the  river  were  tastefully  planned  gardens,  in 
which  could  be  found  all  fruits  and  flowers,  from 

"  The  silvery  almond  flower, 
Which  blooms  on  a  leafless  tree," 

to  the  humble  violet  and  gooseberry. 

It  was  delightful  to  turn  from  the  fortress,  and 
rest  the  eye  on  the  plants  -and  fruits  with  which 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  7 

nature  and  cultivation  had  adorned  these  gardens  in 
prodigal  luxuriance.  Here  were  Mr.  Courtenay's 
walks  with  his  family ;  here  both  himself  and  wife 
loved  to  pause,  amid  the  enchanting  scenery,  and 
direct  the  minds  of  their  children  to  serious  contem- 
plation, where  all  about  them  was  so  well  qualified 
to  awaken  a -taste  for  the  beauties  of  nature.  Edith 
was  always  their  companion.  Her  father,  Capt.  Da- 
cres,  of  the  British  army,  had  been  for  many  years 
a  warmly  attached  friend  of  Mr.  Courtenay ;  and, 
when  death  took  from  him  the  companion  and  de- 
voted wife,  he  confided  his  motherless  little  girl  to 
the  care  of  Mrs.  Courtenay  (her  mother's  only  sister 
having  died  some  few  months  after  her  marriage), 
and  felt  perfectly  convinced,  under  the  guidance  of 
such  a  friend,  her  mother's  loss  would  never  be 
realized. 

Mrs.  Courtenay  had  four  daughters,  —  one  older, 
and  three  younger,  than  Edith ;  and  one  son,  her 
eldest  child.  The  eldest  daughter  and  son  were  at 
boarding-school  at  the  commencement  of  this  narra- 
tive, but  expected  home  in  a  few  days,  as  a  governess 
had  been  temporarily  engaged  for  the  girls,  till  Edith, 
who  had  been  a  delicate  child,  but  who  was  daily 
gaining  strength  of  constitution  from  constant  expo- 
sure to  the  air,  should  be  sufficiently  robust  to  endure 
the  trials  of  boarding-school  life.  With  renovated 
health  came  a  joyousness  of  spirit  Edith  had  not 
hitherto  exhibited.  Her  thoughts,  for  many  weeks, 
had  dwelt  upon  the  general  belief  that  peace  between 


8  EDITH  ; 

England  and  the  United  States  would  soon  occur, 
and  restore  her  beloved  parent  to  his  country  and 
his  child. 

Mr.  Courtenay  had  heard,  by  a  recent  arrival  from 
Halifax,  of  a  severe  wound  Capt.  Dacres  had  received, 
and,  with  his  wife,  had  been  obliged  to  practise 
the  greatest  self-command  to  conceal  from  Edith 
their  anxiety  and  fears  for  her  father's  life.  A  fri- 
gate had  been  for  several  days  expected,  which 
would,  in  all  probability,  give  some  decided  informa- 
tion. Her  arrival  had  been  delayed  at  the  Nore ; 
but  a  letter,  written  by  an  officer  on  board  to  announce 
the  worst,  reached  Mr.  Courtenay  the  day  before  the 
"  Boadicea  "  passed  up  the  Thames. 

"  Should  I  fall,  either  by  the  sword  or  pestilence, 
I  earnestly  beg  to  be  brought  home  for  interment," 
had  been  the  wish  expressed  by  Capt.  Dacres 
when  embarking  with  his  regiment  for  Canada ;  and 
to  fulfil  this  duty  to  his  friend,  and  to  place  his 
remains  in  the  tomb  of  his  cherished  wife,  as  well  as 
to  learn  the  particulars  of  his  last  hours,  Mr.  Cour- 
tenay had  that  morning  gone  to  London. 


OR,    THE    LIGHT   OF    HOME. 


CHAPTER     III. 


'  It  is  not  length  of  years  which  lends 

The  highest  loveliness  to  those 
Whose  memory  with  our  being  blends, 
Whose  worth  within  our  bosom  glows." 


EDITH  awoke  to  a  full  sense  of  her  irreparable  loss. 
Her  first  exclamation  was,  "  My  papa  dead !  dead ! 
Am  I  indeed  an  orphan  ?  "  Her  heart  echoed  the 
fearful  words  ;  and,  hiding  her  face  on  the  shoulder 
of  Mrs.  Courtenay,  she  wept  long  and  bitterly. 

Mrs.  Courtenay's  arms  enclosed  her,  as  a  precious 
treasure  committed  by  Heaven  to  her  charge ;  and, 
mentally  promising  never  to  forget  its  sacredness, 
her  own  tears  fell  on  the  glossy  ringlets  of  the 
afflicted  child,  as  she  pressed  her  to  her  heart,  and 
whispered  sweet  words  of  peace  and  hope.  But 
these  were  unheeded ;  the  sobs  of  Edith  amounted 
almost  to  convulsions ;  and  her  friend  thought  it 
best  to  allow  her  grief  a  free  indulgence,  knowing 
that  nature  required  this  relief  of  tears,  which  would 
probably  soon  exhaust  themselves. 

Several  days  passed  before  Edith  became  com- 
posed. Her  nature  was  impulsive,  and  very  keenly 


10  EDITH  ; 

alive  to  every  thing  in  which  feeling  had  a  share ; 
her  joys  or  her  sorrows  were  usually  in  extremes ; 
and  Mrs.  Courtenay  had  often  gently  but  firmly 
warned  her  against  this  excess  of  sensibility,  fore- 
seeing how  much  it  would  involve  her  happiness  in 
after-life.  Dwelling,  as  she  necessarily  would,  upon 
the  uncertainties  of  a  soldier's  existence,  exposed 
to  danger  in  every  form,  she  often  shuddered  as  she 
heard  Edith's  plans  for  enjoyment  "when  papa 
returns  covered  with  laurels."  She  never  dreamed, 
poor  child !  of  the  possibility  of  defeat ;  she  thought 
not  of  the  "  laurels  "  the  Americans  might  gather,  or 
the  many  brows  which  might  be  decked  with  what 
she  ignorantly  believed  were  exclusively  the  property 
of  Englishmen. 

She  had  always  considered  her  father  a  hero,  —  one 
born  to  command.  The  idea  that  he  could  be  con- 
quered by  a  foreign  foe  ;  that  he  could  die  in  a  strange 
land,  perhaps  without  the  comforts  his  situation 
required,  —  was  too  dreadful  for  her  mind  to  dwell 
upon. 

The  officer  who  had  written  Mr.  Courtenay,  to 
inform  him  of  Capt.  Dacres's  death,  addressed  a 
letter  to  Edith  in  a  few  days  after  his  arrival,  in 
which  he  feelingly  spoke  of  her  father,  as  a  very 
dear  friend,  and  gave  an  account  of  the  closing  scene 
of  his  life  :  — 

"  Permit  me,  my  dear  young  friend,  to  offer  you,  on  this 
sorrowful  occasion,  the  sincere  sympathy  of  a  heart  which  loved 
your  father  as  a  brother.  After  he  received  the  wound,  which 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  11 

soon  proved  fatal,  he  often  spoke  of  you,  and  requested  me  to 
write  you  immediately  upon  my  return  to  England.  His  words 
were,  '  It  is  but  four  short  months  since  I  was  in  possession  of 
perfect  health,  and  happy  in  having  a  darling  child,  whose  expand- 
ing mind  and  ripening  virtues  would,  I  hoped,  in  time,  afford  me 
cause  for  rejoicing  in  her  resemblance  to  her  sainted  mother. 
What  am  I  now  ?  Wounded,  defeated,  saddened,  and  about  to 
leave  my  poor  Edith  without  natural  protectors.  Though  I  know 
the  Courtenays  will  do  for  her  all  that  kind  feeling  and  affection 
could  suggest,  who  can  be  like  her  father  P  Let  her  have  this  one 
consolation,  that  my  remains  be  carried  in  your  ship  to  England. 
My  dream  of  happiness  has  been  brief;  but  I  am  resigned  to  the 
will  of  Heaven.'  When  all  his  brother-officers  were  oppressed 
by  grief,  he  would  say, '  Do  not  mourn  for  me :  it  is  charity  to 
wish  me  released  from  the  suffering  I  endure.'  The  day  previous 
to  his  death?  he  took  me  by  the  hand,  saying, '  Merton,  should  you 
see  my  dear  little  girl,  tell  her  how  much  I  loved  her ;  how  con- 
stantly she  was  in  my  mind,  even  to  the  last ;  how  cheered  I  have 
often  been  by  the  hope  of  seeing  her  at  the  end  of  the  war :  but 
it  was  not  to  be.  We  shall  meet  again,  I  feel  we  shall,  in  a 
brighter  world.  God  bless  her ! ' 

"  My  young  friend,  I  know  how  heavy  your  loss  must  be,  and 
what  abundant  reason  you  have  to  mourn ;  but  I  know,  too,  what 
cause  of  gratitude  you  have  in  possessing  such  friends  as  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Courtenay. 

"  I  hope  to  see  you,  when  I  shall  be  permitted  to  leave  the 
'  Boadicea  '  for  a  brief  visit  in  Milton.  May  I  not  hope  ta  find 
you  calm  and  submissive  ? 

"  Most  truly,  your  friend, 

"GEORGE  MERLON,  R.N." 

Soon  after  the  letter,  Lieut.  Merton  came  for  a 
few  days.  He  tried  to  sooth  Edith,  by  every  effort, 
into  something  like  resignation  to  her  father's  death ; 
but  there  were  days  when  she  refused  all  consola- 


EDITH  ; 

tion,  and  even  seemed  to  take  pleasure  in  nourish- 
ing her  grief.  Still,  at  times  she  appeared  to  make 
great  efforts  at  composure.  She  would  often  sit  for 
hours  alone  in  her  chamber,  gazing  on  the  miniature 
of  her  lost  parent,  and  trying  to  recall  every  endear- 
ing expression  he  had  used,  every  lesson  of  advice 
he  had  bestowed,  ere  they  parted. 

The  children  of  the  family  were  affected  by  Edith's 
sadness,  as  she  had  hitherto  been  always  ready  to  aid 
in  their  plays  after  the  school-hours  were  passed. 
They  missed  her  share  in  their  amusements,  but,  by 
their  mother's  suggestion,  refrained  from  urging  her 
to  leave  her  room  until  she  was  perfectly  willing ; 
and  it  was  both  strange  and  pleasant  to  observe  how 
kindly  attentive  they  were  to  her  whenever  in  her 
presence:  they  loved  her  as  fondly  as  if  she  had 
been  in  reality  their  sister. 

Time  passed  slowly  in  Milton,  while  Edith  con- 
tinued to  sorrow  for  her  father ;  but  its  effect  upon 
her  spirits  was  what  it  is  with  all :  it  softened  and 
subdued  her  grief;  and,  ere  many  weeks,  her  natu- 
rally cheerful  temperament  found  pleasure  in  walking 
with  the  children,  and  Jenny,  their  frequent  attend- 
ant. 

The  governess  from  London  arrived,  and  proved, 
what  governesses  usually  are,  faithful  on  most  occa- 
sions to  duty,  but  at  times  too  indulgent ;  and  when 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Courtenay  were  away,  which  was  some- 
times the  case,  Edith's  propensity  for  works  of  fiction 
was  most  abundantly  gratified,  and  her  feelings  power- 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  13 

fully  impressed  by  such  works  as  the  "  Mysteries  of 
Udolpho,"  &c.,  the  scenes  of  which  were  probably 
all  mysteries  to  her,  except  the  horror  of  the  heroine 
on  discovering  the  wax  figure  of  a  man,  which  she 
supposed  a  human  being  who  had  been  murdered  in 
the  castle. 

This  novel,  so  powerfully  delineated  by  Mrs. 
Radcliffe,  never  lost  its  effect  upon  the  sensitive 
nature  of  Edith.  She  enjoyed  the  beautiful  descrip- 
tions of  the  Alps,  the  Italian  sunsets,  and  grandeur 
of  the  forests :  above  all,  the  devoted  tenderness  of 
Emily  to  her  invalid  father  impressed  her  with  so 
much  regret  that  she  was  denied  the  privilege  of 
being  with  her  parent  in  his  last  hours.  There  was 
a  romantic  interest  thrown  around  this  work,  which 
probably  gave  coloring  to  her  after-life.  She  was 
extravagantly  fond  of  reading;  was  willing,  at  any 
time,  to  resign  the  amusements  common  at  her  age, 
to  steal  into  a  corner  with  a  book.  A  story  always 
interested  her,  no  matter  how  improbable,  how  much 
at  variance  with  every-day  events,  were  the  circum- 
stances detailed.  She  eagerly  devoured  it;  and 
never  did  one  doubt  of  its  reality  come  to  destroy 
the  illusion  it  produced. 

Mrs.  Courtenay  often  regretted  this  fondness  for 
reading,  as  she  could  not  always  direct  Edith's  choice 
of  books.  Her  only  hope  was,  the  natural  strength 
of  her  intellect  would  struggle  through  the  mist  of 
error  by  which  she  was  surrounding  herself.  She 
knew  the  stern  realities  of  life  would  in  time  teach 


14  EDITH; 

her  all  was  not  couleur  de  rose ;  and  she  almost 
dreaded  to  awaken  her  from  her  dreamy  enjoyment 
of  poetry  and  fiction  while  in  the  early  hours  of  her 
existence.  Had  Edith  been  other  than  an  adopted 
daughter,  her  course  would  have  been  more  decided. 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME,  15 


CHAPTER     IV. 


"  As  the  sweet  flower  which  scents  the  morn, 

But  withers  in  the  rising  day, 
Thus  lovely  seemed  the  infant's  dawn, 
Thus  swiftly  fled  her  life  away. 


Miss  TAYLOR,  the  governess,  remained  but  a  few 
months  at  Mr.  Courtenay's ;  for  she  disputed  supre- 
macy with  Jenny,  the  autocrat  of  the  nursery,  and 
continual  scenes  of  warfare  disturbed  the  hitherto 
peaceful  family.  This,  however,  was  not  the  sole 
cause  for  Miss  Taylor's  removal.  Jenny  was  unques- 
tionably the  favorite  with  the  children :  she  had  no 
lessons  to  teach ;  she  made  no  efforts  to  have  them 
speak  with  grammatical  accuracy;  and  they  were 
heartily  glad  when  Miss  Taylor  left,  and  they  were 
for  a  time  sent  to  a  day-school. 

To  keep  in  favor  with  Jenny  was  a  very  important 
consideration,  as  there  were  many  ways  in  which  she 
could  promote  the  children's  happiness  by  indul- 
gence, or  their  discomfort  by  her  displeasure. 

She  had  many  valuable  traits  of  character,  a  natu- 
rally strong  mind,  and  faithfulness  to  what  she  con- 
sidered duty ;  but,  like  many  persons  invested  with 


16  EDITH; 

power,  she  at  times  exercised  it  to  its  fullest  extent. 
She  had  the  care  of  Mrs.  Courtenay's  children  beyond 
the  limits  usually  allowed  domestics.  Perhaps  Mrs. 
Courtenay  erred  in  permitting  such  an  ascendency 
over  them ;  but  she  saw  and  knew  the  eminent 
qualities  of  head  and  heart  Jenny  possessed,  and  felt 
they  would  guard  her  from  taking  advantage  of  her 
position. 

Jenny  often  walked  with  the  little  girls.  She  had 
so  much  innate  taste  as  to  select  the  most  picturesque 
regions  for  their  rambles,  and  would  direct  Edith's 
attention  to  objects  of  interest,  if  only  the  trunk  of  an 
aged  tree,  on  which  moss  was  collected,  or  the  dark  ivy 
was  twining.  Her  inclination  frequently  led  her  to 
old  churches,  ruins,  &c.,  of  which  there  were  many 
in  the  neighborhood.  But  the  favorite  walk  was  to 
Windmill  Hill,  about  a  mile  from  Milton,  where  the 
children  used  to  talk  with  the  miller,  watch  the  mill  in 
motion,  and  then  run  to  gather  cowslips,  violets,  and 
primroses,  to  carry  home  to  mamma,  as  the  first  offer- 
ings of  spring.  How  many  times  would  Edith  kneel 
upon  the  grass,  search  for  early  violets,  attracted  by 
their  perfume  to  the  spot  wThere  the  flowers  were 
modestly  concealed !  How  exultingly  she  would  lift 
her  head,  shake  back  her  dark  curls,  and  hold  up  a 
bunch  of  her  treasures  for  Jenny  to  admire,  as  they 
glittered  with  dew,  and  sparkled  like  diamonds  in 
the  sunlight !  And  then  the  joy  of  offering  them  to 
her  dear  mamma,  of  receiving  her  sweet  smile  and  a 
fond  kiss,  —  it  was  all  Edith  needed  to  fill  up  the 


OR,    THE    LIGHT   OF    HOME.  17 

measure  of  delight,  even  after  thinking  and  saying, 
"  No,  I  never  can  be  happy  again !  " 

At  the  foot  of  Windmill  Hill  stood  a  cottage,  neatly- 
thatched,  and  nearly  covered  in  front  with  creeping 
vines.  A  short  distance  from  it  were  some  noble 
elms,  rich  in  spring  foliage.  Here  the  little  girls 
often  stopped  to  rest,  and  be  refreshed  by  a  draught 
of  milk.  Ellen,  the  eldest  daughter,  would  laugh- 
ingly tell  the  old  cottager  that  her  papa  "came 
from  America,  where  the  people  were  all  copper- 
colored  Indians,  except  a  very  few  white  men."  The 
poor  woman  would  stare,  and  lift  up  her  hands  in 
wonder  that  there  could  be  such  a  race  of  men. 
The  mystery  of  how  Mr.  Courtenay  came  to  be 
white,  or  the  Indians  copper-color,  she  never  solved. 
It  was  hardly  justifiable  in  Ellen  thus  to  mislead  the 
good  cottager  ;  but,  as  she  said,  "  there  was  so  much 
fun  in  witnessing  her  astonishment  and  credulity,  it 
was  irresistible." 

In  one  of  these  excursions,  when  the  youngest 
child  in  the  family  was  about  three  years  and  a  half 
old,  Jenny  went  toward  Milton  Church,  to  admire 
its  ivy-clad  walls ;  its  solemn  yews,  and  memorials 
of  the  dead ;  its  luxuriant  growth  of  grass,  and 
abundance  of  daisies  which  bloomed  in  the  church- 
yard. Little  Emma  was  frolicking  before  the  party, 
looking  like  a  cherub  in  her  loveliness,  her  flaxen 
curls  floating  in  the  breeze,  and  the  silvery  tones  of 
her  voice  ringing  in  a  merry  laugh,  when  a  bird 
suddenly  flitted  before  her,  and,  after  a  brief  strug- 

2* 


18  EDITH  ; 

gle,  expired  at  her  feet.  With  a  countenance  of 
deeply  solemn  expression,  Jenny  exclaimed,  "  Death 
is  among  us  ! "  Edith  was  struck  by  her  tone  and 
manner,  as  calculated  to  affect  the  children,  and  said 
to  her,  very  impatiently,  "  Why,  Jenny,  how  super- 
stitious you  are !  What  would  mamma  say  to  your 
talking  so  foolishly  ?  " 

"  Wait,  Miss  Edith,"  replied  the  excited  Jenny, 
"  it  may  not  be  superstition,  after  all ;  at  any  rate, 
you  need  not  have  spoken  so  sharp :  we  believe  in 
such  things,  in  Wales,  as  signs." 

"  I  did  not  mean  to  be  sharp,"  said  Edith ;  "  but  I 
was  sorry  to  hear  you  speak  as  you  did  before  the 
children.  I  know  you  do  not  actually  believe  in 
omens,  dear  Jenny." 

There  was  no  reply  to  Edith's  remark. 

Jenny's  words  were  prophetic.  , 

In  one  short  week,  the  beautiful  bright  child,  the 
idol  of  the  household,  was  dead,  and,  reverently  be 
it  said,  "  stood  an  angel  at  the  throne  of  her  God." 

Emma  was  taken  suddenly  ill  on  the  following 
Sunday  morning.  Jenny  carried  her  into  Mrs. 
Courtenay's  sleeping-room,  saying  the  child  com- 
plained of  pain  in  her  head  and  back.  The  affrighted 
mother  saw,  in  the  changed  aspect  of  the  little  girl, 
that  Death  had  set  his  seal  on  her  brow :  her  coun- 
tenance was  ghastly  pale ;  her  eyelids  closed ;  she 
seemed  entirely  unconscious  of  the  efforts  made  to 
rouse  her. 

Medical  advice  was  immediately  procured ;  every 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  19 

thing  which  the  united  skill  of  physicians  could  do 
was  tried;  but  in  vain.  By  seven  o'clock  in  the 
evening,  she  had  ceased  to  breathe. 

This  sudden  event  threw  the  household  into  the 
deepest  affliction,  particularly  the  bereaved  parents ; 
for,  being  the  youngest,  Emma  very  naturally  was 
the  pet  and  plaything.  Her  personal  beauty  made 
her  very  attractive  ;  but  her  exceeding  sweetness  of 
disposition  intwined  her  round  the  hearts  of  all. 
The  blank  made  by  her  death  was  not  to  be  filled. 

"  That  form  so  fair,  those  eyes  so  bright, 

Are  laid  in  hallowed  ground ; 
And  over  them  the  church-bell  chimes 
A  peaceful  requiem  sound." 


EDITH 


CHAPTER    V. 


"  'Tis  ever  thus,  'tis  ever  thus,  with  creatures  heavenly  fair,  — 
Too  finely  framed  to  bide  the  brunt  more  earthly  natures  bear : 
A  little  while  they  dwell  with  us,  blest  ministers  of  love ; 
Then  spread  the  wings  we  had  not  seen,  and  seek  their  homes  above." 


ON  the  Sunday  of  Emma's  illness,  as  the  physicians 
feared  her  symptoms  were  of  an  aggravated  case  of 
scarlet-fever,  and  Edith  had  never  been  exposed  to 
any  infectious  disease,  the  latter  was  sent  out  of  town 
to  a  little  village  called  Northfleet.  Her  residence  was 
in  the  family  of  a  Mrs.  Baker,  —  a  widow,  with  two 
daughters  and  a  son,  highly  respectable,  intelligent 
people.  The  cottage  was  one  of  those  picturesque 
dwellings  so  common  in  England,  so  often  described, 
but  always  interesting  ;  its  front  covered  with  the 
honeysuckle  and  eglantine  ;  the  entrance  gay  with 
the  scarlet  geranium  and  purple  bergamot,  which 
grew  at  each  side  of  the  door,  and  diffused  their  fra- 
grance through  the  house. 

The  owner  of  this  pretty  cottage  had  been  a  mil- 
ler :  his  widow,  with  the  aid  of  her  son,  still  carried 
on  the  mill ;  and  he,  every  morning,  might  be 
seen 

"  To  heave  the  powdered  sacks,  and  grind  the  corn." 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  21 

The  two  daughters  assisted  their  mother  in  house- 
hold duties  :  the  younger  kept  also  a  little  school. 
Henrietta  was  a  lovely  girl,  far  superior  to  the  station 
she  filled ;  one  of  those  meek  and  gentle  beings, 
whose  very  presence  seemed  to  diffuse  happiness 
around  her.  She  devoted  herself  to  Edith  during 
her  stay,  ever  finding  means  of  soothing  her  anxiety 
about  home,  and  waiting  upon  her  as  assiduously 
and  affectionately  as  upon  a  younger  sister. 

Notwithstanding  the  efforts  to  keep  Edith's  mind 
tranquil,  it  was  cause  for  surprise  and  anxiety  that 
she  received  no  information  from  Milton  of  the  pro- 
gress of  Emma's  illness.  The  subject  was  dwelt  upon 
as  little  as  possible  by  the  family  ;  and,  feeling  there 
might  be  satisfactory  reasons  for  their  silence,  she 
waited  patiently  until  some  information  should  be 
given. 

One  evening,  as  she  knelt  by  her  bedside,  offer- 
ing, in  low  tones,  her  petition  to  Heaven  for  the 
child's  restoration,  Henrietta  stole  softly  behind  her, 
and,  gently  placing  her  hand  on  the  bowed  head, 
whispered,  "  It  is  well  with  the  child."  Edith  raised 
her  eyes  beseechingly  to  her :  "  Do  you  mean  she  is 

recovering  ?  or  " And  her  voice,  choked  by 

her  emotions,  forbade  further  utterance. 

"Dear  Edith,"  said  Henrietta,  "you  will  soon 
know  all :  our  silence  has  been  in  accordance  with 
your  mamma's  .request,  to  save  you  pain.  Jenny 
will  be  here  in  a  day  or  two  ;  and  I  beg  you  to  be 
tranquil  until  then." 


22  EDITH; 

"  I  will  try  to  be  tranquil,  because  it  is  mamma's 
wish ;  but  I  think  this  suspense  is  very  hard  to  be 
borne.  I  would  infinitely  rather  know  the  worst." 

On  the  following  Sunday,  Jenny  arrived,  laden 
with  affectionate  messages  from  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Cour- 
tenay ;  but  Emma  was  not  named. 

Jenny,  as  usual,  wished  to  go  to  the  churchyard 
for  a  walk.  Edith  and  Henrietta  accompanied  her. 
She  seated  herself  on  a  low  monument,  and,  as  the 
day  was  warm,  took  off  her  bonnet,  when  the  white 
ribbon  on  her  cap  told  the  sad  tale  of  Emma's  death. 
Edith  burst  into  tears.  A  solemn  silence  pervaded 
the  spot,  unbroken  for  some  minutes,  except  by  the 
soft  whispering  of  the  breeze  among  the  yews. 
Jenny  tried  to  check  Edith's  sorrow,  by  telling  her 
how  well  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Courtenay  bore  their  afflic- 
tion, and  how  much  exertion  the  children  made  to 
suppress  their  grief  for  their  parents'  sake  :  but 
Edith  could  not  refrain  from  the  indulgence  of  her 
feelings  for  the  loss  of  the  sweet  child  she  had  loved 
so  fondly ;  and  she  continued  to  weep,  until  Jenny 
informed  her  Mr.  Courtenay  would  come  for  her 
the  next  day,  as  the  physicians  thought,  whatever 
might  have  been  Emma's  disease,  no  danger  of  con- 
tagion now  existed. 

The  next  day,  Mr.  Courtenay  arrived :  his  radiant 
smile  was  gone  ;  a  deep  shade  was  on  his  brow ; 
and,  as  he  pressed  Edith  fondly  in  his  arms,  she  felt 
a  tear  on  her  cheek.  The  firm  man,  the  strongly  dis- 
ciplined mind,  were  subdued ;  and  long  and  silently 
they  clung  to  each  other  in  their  mutual  grief. 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  23 

Mr.  Courtenay's  life  had  been  a  very  prosperous 
one,  and  this  might  be  said  to  be  his  first  real  sor- 
row. Language  has  no  words  to  express  his  deep 
feeling  on  the  occasion.  It  was  the  first  time  death 
had  been  brought  home  to  him ;  and  to  have  it  fall 
upon  a  being  he  loved  so  fondly,  had  overcome  him 
so  completely,  that  years  seemed  to  have  been  added 
to  his  life.  But  no  murmur  escaped  his  lips ;  he 
never  spoke  of  his  lost  Emma ;  and  probably,  from 
the  effort  he  made  to  control  all  outward  semblance 
of  sorrow,  the  deeper  was  his  internal  suffering. 

When  Edith  arrived  at  home,  she  was  inexpressi- 
bly shocked  by  the  change  in  her  adopted  mother's 
appearance :  the  anguish  in  her  heart  had  spread 
itself  to  her  countenance.  She  received  Edith  very 
affectionately,  and,  kissing  her  fondly,  said,  "  You 
will,  I  know,  understand  all  I  suffer.  Ellen  has 
often  wished  you  with  us  during  the  sad  week  after 
Emma's  death ;  but  I  feared  to  expose  you  to  any 
thing  like  contagion.  My  other  children,  you  know, 
have  had  the  scarlet-fever ;  but  for  you,  dearest 
Edith,  I  feel  a  double  responsibility." 

"  O  mamma !  "  said  Edith,  "  I  should  have  been 
so  glad  to  have  been  with  you  and  dear  Ellen  at 
such  a  time !  I  know  I  could  have  done  a  little 
towards  comforting  you.  And  then  Ellen  has  had  a 
sad  satisfaction  I  can  never  know :  she  saw  Emma 
before  she  was  taken  away  ;  had  the  privilege  of  kiss- 
ing her  pale  cheek,  of  giving  her  a  last  look." 

"  It  is  better  as  it  is,"  said  Mrs.  Courtenay  ;  "  you 


EDITH; 

now  remember  her  in  the  full  bloom  of  health  and 
loveliness.  Though  her  illness  was  so  brief,  it 
changed  her  very  much :  the  lustre  of  her  bright 
eyes  was  gone ;  the  evidences  of  approaching  death 
were  so  strong  as  to  make  even  me  feel  it  painful  to 
look  upon  her." 

"O  dear,  dear  mamma,  how  you  must  have  suf- 
fered !  "  And  the  affectionate  Edith  clasped  her  mo- 
ther's neck,  and  kissed  her  pale  cheek  again  and 
again,  in  token  of  her  sympathetic  tenderness. 

Ellen  at  this  moment  entered  the  room,  and,  turn- 
ing to  Mrs.  Courtenay,  said,  "  Mamma,  I  do  not 
believe  any  one  of  the  family  grieves  more  sincerely 
for  the  loss  of  little  Emma  than  Jenny.  I  found 
her  this  morning,  in  her  chamber,  kneeling  before 
an  open  trunk,  and  taking  from  it  a  pair  of  little 
morocco  shoes  and  a  frock,  which  I  knew  you  had 
given  her:  she  kissed  them  most  fervently,  while 
the  tears  fell  fast  over  her  treasures.  When  she  saw 
me,  she  made  every  effort  to  hide  her  feelings.  I 
begged  her  not  to  practise  any  restraint,  "as  /  should 
love  her  more  for  the  love  she  bore  my  sweet  sis- 
ter." 

"  O  Miss  Ellen  ! "  she  said,  "  I  cannot  realize 
dear  little  Emma  is  gone.  It  seems  to  me  now 
that  nothing  on  earth  can  interest  me  as  she  did : 
my  affection  was  all  given  to  her." 

"  I  believe  she  spoke  only  the  truth,"  replied  Mrs. 
Courtenay,  "  or  the  truth  as  it  appears  to  her ;  for 
her  attachment  to  Emma  was  of  very  unusual  depth  ; 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  25 

and  if  any  thing  could  add  to  the  confidence  I  already 
feel  in  this  devoted  girl,  it  would  be  her  affection 
for  my  lost  one,  her  consideration  for  my  feelings, 
as  she  always  checks  any  outbreak  in  my  pre- 
sence." 

Mrs.  Courtenay's  strong  mind  urged  her  onward 
in  the  course  of  duty  towards  her  other  children, 
though  the  loss  of  Emma  fell  heavily  on  her  heart. 
She  made  redoubled  efforts  to  promote  their  happi- 
ness, and- to  sustain  her  husband's  drooping  spirits. 
Her  thoughts  would  often  wander  back  to  her  de- 
parted child,  would  bring  vividly  before  her  the 
scene  of  her  sudden  death,  but  always  in  meek  sub- 
mission to  "  Him  who  doeth  all  things  well." 


26  EDITH 


CHAPTER    VI. 


"  And  some  there  are  who  hail  the  rising  morn, 

Pluck  its  gay  flowers,  and  taste  its  opening  bloom, 
Who,  ere  a  cloud  obscures  the  infant  dawn, 

Unsullied,  sleep  within  the  peaceful  tomb. 
But  happier  thou,  though  called  in  early  youth, 

Not  unmatured,  by  sickness  gently  led, 
To  seek  the  bright,  immortal  path  of  truth, 

And  rest  on  Love  Divine  thy  aching  head." 


AMONG  the  enj  ay  merits  of  Mrs.  Courtenay's  children 
was  visiting  a  lady  who  had  been  like  a  mother  to 
Mrs.  Courtenay,  and  whom  the  children  called  grand- 
mamma. 

A  little  girl  resided  with  her,  whose  mother,  Mrs. 
Harcourt's  only  daughter,  had  died,  leaving  her  an 
infant  of  a  few  days  old,  and  whose  father,  so  deeply 
immersed  in  business  as  to  be  seldom  with  his 
child,  was,  at  the  time  of  which  we  speak,  in 
Malta. 

This  little  girl  was  naturally  the  idol  of  her  be- 
reaved grandparent,  and  an  object  of  great  interest  to 
the  little  Courtenays  and  Edith.  She  was  exceed- 
ingly lovely,  possessing  an  innate  dignity  and  grace 
in  every  movement,  which  often  led  people  to  say 
she  was  "born  a  duchess."  Her  manners  were  at 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  27 

times  very  courteous  ;  but  she  could  be  somewhat 
despotic,  —  the  result  of  her  peculiar  position. 

Margaret  Granville  selected  the  younger  children 
to  be  more  particularly  her  companions,  as  she  called 
Ellen  "  too  old,"  and  Edith  "  too  grave."  Caroline 
Courtenay,  a  laughing,  dark-eyed,  roguish  child,  was 
always  full  of  mischief  and  fun ;  while  the  disposi- 
tion of  Marion,  who  possessed  more  personal  beauty, 
was  so  quiet  and  docile,  that,  with  her,  one  kind 
word  was  sufficient  to  induce  compliance  with  any 
requisition. 

Ellen,  —  what  can  be  said  of  Ellen,  with  her  lus- 
trous blue  eyes  and  flaxen  hair  ? 

"  Never  did  Grecian  chisel  trace 
A  Nymph,  a  Naiad,  or  a  Grace, 
Of  finer  form  or  lovelier  face." 

She  was  all  her  fond  parents  could  desire  in  a  child, 
—  kind,  affectionate,  gentle,  well-disciplined,  and 
obedient  to  every  wish. 

Edward,  the  only  son,  was  a  fine-looking  boy, 
manly,  brave,  and  generous ;  but  very  quick-tem- 
pered, impulsive,  and  but  too  easily  influenced  by 
those  around  him.  He  had  been  kept  very  constantly 
at  school,  a  few  miles  from  home,  as  the  town  of 
Milton  afforded  no  facilities  for  his  education. 

Edith  seemed  unlike  any  of  these  children  in  her 
nature ;  but,  from  living  so  long  among  them,  she 
had  acquired  many  of  their  tastes,  and  assimilated 
with  them  in  all  important  affairs.  She  was,  at 
times,  very  independent,  it  might  be  said  haughty. 


28  EDITH  ; 

She  disliked  all  restraint,  —  shrank  from  contradic- 
tion or  opposition.  An  order  she  never  would  have 
obeyed ;  but  a  request,  mildly  given,  she  delighted 
to  grant ;  and,  if  at  times  betraying  some  degree  of 
waywardness,  her  orphan  state  came  to  the  hearts  of 
all,  pleading  apologies  for  her.  Her  nature  was  so 
generous,  so  open,  there  was  so  much  versatility  in 
her  character,  she  was  loved  wherever  she  was 
known.  Her  disposition  was  so  grateful,  that  not  a 
"ray  of  sunshine  which  beamed  across  her  path,  or 
single  blessing  which  gladdened  her  home,"  ever 
failed  to  awaken  thoughts  of  thankfulness  for  pos- 
sessing (young  as  she  was)  a  mind  to  appreciate  all 
the  gifts  Heaven  had  so  indulgently  bestowed. 

Edith  was  not  what  is  called  beautiful ;  for  the  charm 
of  her  face  consisted  in  its  variety  rather  than  in  its 
regularity  of  features.  Her  color  rose  or  faded  with 
every  emotion ;  she  could  look  proudly  and  sternly, 
or  wear  a  smile  of  ineffable  sweetness ;  her  mouth 
was  indisputably  beautiful ;  and  the  pearly  whiteness 
of  her  teeth,  when  her  lips  parted,  was  dazzling. 
Her  complexion  was  perhaps  not  fair  enough  to 
afford  a  contrast  to  dark  eyes  and  hair ;  but  her  form, 
even  in  childhood,  was  regally  imposing  in  its  con- 
tour. 

Many  bright  and  joyous  days  were  spent  at  Mrs. 
Harcourt's.  The  good  old  lady  was  ever  anxious 
to  promote  the  happiness  of  the  children  ;  and  to  her 
they  were  indebted  for  many  valuable  lessons  of  love 
to  God,  obedience  to  their  parents,  and  kindness  to 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  529 

each  other.  Her  far-searching  mind  seemed  to  have 
an  intuitive  sense,  that  to  cultivate  these  feelings 
would  be  more  than  commonly  important  to  some  of 
them  in  after-life ;  that  their  young  days  were  to  be 
clouded  by  adversity,  and  the  energies  of  their  cha- 
racters very  early  quickened  into  operation. 

To  Edith  she  often  said,  "  Cultivate  your  mind, 
to  afford  never-failing  resources  in  adversity  ;  lay  up 
a  store  of  useful  information,  to  avail  you  when  the 
world  shall  lose  its  attractions."  This  was  not  the 
highest  stimulus  to  improvement ;  but  it  increased 
her  ambitious  desire  to  attain  some  degree  of  supe- 
riority over  her  young  companions. 

The  cloud  which  had  but  recently  darkened  the 
horizon  of  Mr.  Courtenay's  domestic  happiness  had 
scarcely  given  place  to  the  sunlight  of  tranquillity 
when  it  gathered  again,  prostrating  on  a  bed  of  ill- 
ness the  eldest  daughter,  Ellen.  She  had  been  again 
at  boarding-school  for  a  few  weeks,  and  returned  to 
spend  a  brief  vacation,  when  she  and  Edith  one 
morning  proposed  going  to  a  friend's  house,  a  little 
way  out  of  town,  to  spend  the  day. 

While  walking  in  the  garden,  she  complained  of 
slight  pain  in  her  head,  which  was  supposed  to  be 
occasioned  by  fatigue.  Edith  urged  her  to  go  into 
the  house,  and  rest  on  a  sofa ;  but  the  pain  increased, 
and  it  was  considered  best  to  send  her  home  in  the 
carriage,  with  one  of  the  young  ladies  of  the  family 
in  addition,  to  explain  to  Mrs.  Courtenay  the  rea- 
son of  her  sudden  return,  and  to  report  how  she 

3* 


30  EDITH; 

bore  the  ride.  Her  mother,  alarmed  by  her  flushed 
cheek  and  the  unnatural  brilliancy  of  her  eyes,  sent 
immediately  for  medical  advice.  The  physician 
expressed  fears  of  typhoid-fever,  yet  hoped,  by 
timely  aid,  to  check  its  progress.  But  she  grew 
rapidly  worse :  her  mind  often  wandered  alternately 
to  school  and  its  studies,  to  flowers  and  rural  enjoy- 
ments :  she  sometimes  spoke  cheerfully  of  her  reco- 
very, and  then  sank  into  a  stupor,  not  recognizing 
either  parent ;  frequently  called  for  Edith,  then 
seemed  bewildered  as  to  who  she  was. 

Edith,  although  against  the  earnest  entreaties  of 
Mrs.  Courtenay,  resolutely  stood  by  the  bedside  of 
her  young  friend,  bathed  her  burning  brow,  kissed 
her  flushed  cheek,  and  smoothed  the  fair  ringlets 
as  they  hung  in  disorder,  while  the  patient  turned 
restlessly  from  pillow  to  pillow. 

A  consultation  of  physicians  was  called :  they 
pronounced  her  apparently  beyond  the  reach  of 
human  aid.  When  their  opinion  was  made  known 
to  Mrs.  Courtenay,  she  seemed  powerless  in  her 
grief.  Her  identity  was  lost  in  the  tide  of  sorrow 
which  was  overwhelming  her ;  and  for  hours  she 
could  not  be  persuaded  to  leave  the  bedside  of  the 
suffering  girl,  —  holding  a  hand  firmly  grasped  with- 
in her  own,  gazing  on  the  altered  form  which  lay 
almost  motionless  on  the  bed,  and,  in  an  agony  of 
prayer,  beseeching  Heaven  to  spare  this  cherished 
object  of  her  affection.  Her  faith  seemed  strength- 
ened by  every  effort  and  aspiration,  till  she  gradually 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  31 

began  to  feel,  that,  whether  granted  or  denied,  the 
petition  would  be  answered  only  by  Wisdom  un- 
erring. 

Mr.  Courtenay,  entirely  unable  to  attend  to  busi- 
ness, remained  at  home,  hovering  about  the  sick 
chamber,  or  shut  up  in  the  library  with  the  two  lit- 
tle girls,  who,  by  their  caresses,  tried  to  soothe  his 
affliction. 

The  last  hour  of  life  came.  In  a  fortnight  from 
the  day  Ellen  was  attacked,  she  expired  in  her  mo- 
ther's arms,  —  passed  quietly  away  without  a  sigh. 

Only  one  year,  one  short  year,  and  the  afflicted 
parents  stood  on  the  same  spot  where  they  had  con- 
signed the  mortal  remains  of  little  Emma.  The 
plants,  the  shrubs,  in  the  churchyard,  had  bloomed 
and  died  but  once,  and  were  just  bursting  again  into 
life,  when  the  green  sod  was  to  be  placed  over 
another  grave,  —  the  grave  of  a  lovely,  blooming 
girl,  bright  in  intellect,  endearing  from  the  sweet- 
ness of  her  disposition  and  gentleness  of  temper,  and 
who  was  in  the  full  flush  of  health  and  enjoyment 
only  fourteen  days  previous  to  her  death.  "  Pray 
for  me,"  said  Mr.  Courtenay  to  his  wife,  "  pray  for 
me,  Ellen,  that  I  may  bear  this  weight  of  woe  as 
becomes  a  Christian  and  a  man.  I  have  consigned 
my  child  to  her  last  home  on  earth :  may  God  give 
me  strength  to  bear  the  trial ! "  Mrs.  Courtenay 
clasped  her  husband's  hand,  and,  resting  her  head 
on  his  shoulder,  said  to  him,  in  gentle  and  subdued 
tones,  "  Comfort  will  come  to  us." 


32  EDITH; 


CHAPTER    VII. 


"  Dear  lovely  bowers  of  innocence  and  ease,  — 
Seats  of  my  youth,  when  every  -charm  could  please ! 
How  often  have  I  paused  on  every  charm !  — 
The  sheltered  cot ;  the  cultivated  farm ; 
The  never-failing  brook ;  the  busy  mill ; 
The  decent  church,  that  topped  the  neighboring  hill ; 
The  hawthorn  bush,  with  seats  beneath  the  shade, 
For  talking  age  and  whispering  lovers  made." —  GOLDSMITH. 


THE  startling  effect  of  Ellen's  death  on  the  hearts  of 
her  adopted  parents  Edith  never  realized,  as,  on  the 
day  of  the  funeral,  she  was  taken  ill  with  the  same 
fever,  and,  for  several  weeks,  was  unconscious  of 
attention,  or  any  thing  that  passed  around  her. 

To  all  outward -appearance,  she  was  more  severely 
ill  than  Ellen.  Her  brain,  the  seat  of  the  disease, 
was  so  much  disordered,  that  Dr.  Harris  feared  she 
never  could  be  sound  in  mind,  even  if  her  life  were 
spared. 

Poor  Mrs.  Courtenay  !  how  bitterly  did  she  lament 
not  having  insisted  upon  her  leaving  home,  not  hav- 
ing denied  her  the  sad  indulgence  for  which  she  had 
so  urgently  pleaded,  —  of  ministering  to  Ellen  ! 

Every  morning,  Grandmamma  Harcourt  sent  to 
make  inquiries  for  the  poor  invalid,  almost  hoping 


Oil,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  33 

to  hear  all  was  over ;  but  daily  came  back  the  mes- 
senger with  tidings  of  "  no  change." 

The  physicians  still  said,  "  We  fear  she  will  never 
have  her  intellect  in  full  power ;  "  but  it  was  not  so 
to-be.  Reason  began  slowly  to  dawn  on  Edith's 
benighted  mind ;  the  objects  around  her  began  to 
grow  familiar.  Her  first  clear  perception  of  any 
thing  was  Mrs.  Courtenay's  beautiful  countenance, 
as  she  bent  over  the  bed,  and  Mr.  Courtenay's  face, 
lighted  up  by  hope.  She  tried  to  extend  her  hand,  — 
it  fell  powerless  on  the  bed ;  but  she  murmured  the 
name  of  "  Mamma !  dear  mamma  !  "  What  music 
to  her  friends  was  in  that  word !  what  joy  in  the 
recognition !  They  stooped  to  imprint  a  kiss  on  the 
pale  cheek,  on  which  rested  the  dark  lashes  of  her 
closed  eyes,  and,  for  the  first  time,  indulged  hope 
of  her  restoration. 

Jenny  came  towards  the  bed,  —  dear,  kind  Jenny, 
—  and,  as  she  smoothed  the  pillow,  her  tears  fell 
like  raindrops  on  the  invalid's  face :  she  had  been  a 
devoted  nurse,  and  watched  every  turn  of  the  fever 
with  the  anxiety  and  tenderness  of  a  mother.  Slowly, 
but  visibly,  Edith  improved;  and,  ere  the  spring 
had  entirely  passed,  she  was  able  to  sit  at  a  window, 
gazing  delightedly  at  the  flowers  in  the  garden,  and 
watching  the  busy  scene  on  the  Thames,  as  the  ships 
passed  to  and  from  London.  The  sound  of  the 
reveille  at  the  fort,  the  band  in  the  evening,  the 
sunset  gun,  all  came  to  her  across  the  river  with 
the  familiar  tones  of  long-cherished  association.  Her 


34  E  D  1  T  H  J 

face  was  still  pale  and  thin ;  her  luxuriant  curls  had 
been  taken  off  during  her  delirium  ;  but  each  return- 
ing day  seemed  to  restore  her  more  and  more  to  her 
former  self. 

The  children  were  so  delighted  at  her  amend- 
ment, they  were  continually  testifying  their  joy  by 
bringing  her  bouquets,  &c.  Margaret  Granville 
would  often  read  to  her,  or  tell  long  stories  of  her 
father's  travels  in  the  Mediterranean,  a^id  exhibit  his 
gifts  from  the  different  islands. 

When  sufficiently  recovered  to  be  removed,  she 
went  on  a  visit  to  some  friends  of  Mrs.  Courtenay 
at  Glendale  Farm,  the  residence  of  Mr.  Leslie. 
She  had  known  this  family  for  some  time,  had  often 
passed  days  there,  but  had  never  made  a  visit  of  any 
length.  It  proved  a  period  of  happiness  she  never 
forgot.  Its  early  days  were  saddened,  it  is  true,  by 
the  rememberance  of  Ellen ;  but  her  own  rescue  from 
death  had  been  so  almost  miraculous  that  it  softened 
the  distress  she  had  otherwise  felt.  She  cherished  the 
memory  of  her  adopted  sister  ;  deeply  sympathized 
with  her  heart-broken  mother :  but  there  was  so 
much  vitality  in  her  own  nature,  so  intense  ^.  love 
for  the  country,  that  very  soon  her  joyous  feelings 
returned,  and  she  bloomed  again  in  health  and  bright- 
ness. 

The  family  at  Glendale  Farm  consisted  of  Mr. 
Leslie,  two  daughters,  and  one  son.  The  last  was 
a  pupil  of  Eton  School ;  the  elder  daughter,  Mary, 
was  at  the  head  of  her  father's  house ;  'the  younger, 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  35 

about  twelve  years  old,  was  at  home  for  the  holidays. 
They  all  welcomed  Edith  on  her  arrival,  as  a  very 
precious  charge,  knowing  how  anxiously  Mrs.  Cour- 
tenay  had  watched  over  her.  They  devoted  them- 
selves to  her,  exerting  every  effort  to  amuse  her,  and 
divert  her  thoughts  from  her  recent  illness,  and  the 
affliction  of  her  friends  at  home. 

The  house  was  somewhat  old  in  its  style  of  archi- 
tecture ;  but  its  internal  arrangement  of  furniture, 
pictures,  and  all  tasteful  ornaments,  would  have 
satisfied  the  most  fastidious.  It  was  situated  in  a 
beautiful  and  fertile  region,  embracing  extensive 
views.  There  is  a  peculiar  softness  over  the  scenery 
in  Kent :  it  has  been  compared  to  "  a  beautiful  face 
seen  through  a  gauze  veil."  The  misty  climate 
causes  vegetation  to  retain  the  rich  green  so  late,  and 
assume  it  so  early,  it  is  quite  delightful.  The  culti- 
vation of  the  fields,  nearly  everywhere  to  be  seen, 
and,  from  the  chamber  appropriated  to  Edith,  the 
luxuriance  of  all  around,  filled  her  with  delight. 
The  gardens,  too,  so  tastefully  arranged ;  the  distant 
church,  so  venerable  and  ivy-clad,  so  picturesque  in 
its  situation ;  the  woods  for  a  background  ;  the  vil- 
lage footpath,  with  its  stiles  leading  to  the  church ; 
and,  at  a  little  distance,  a  ruin,  the  remnant  of  other 
times,  with  its  broken  arch  and  gateway,  —  all  seemed 
to  combine  to  thrill  her  heart  with  rapture  too 
exquisite  for  words ;  and  when  Mary  Leslie  would 
look  with  her  on  this  landscape,  by  the  light  of  the 
setting  sun,  she  would  clasp  her  round  the  neck,  and 


36  EDITH; 

only  say, "  Oh,  what  a  paradise  !  How  spiritless 
every  other  place  must  look  to  you  !  " 

"  It  is  always  a  lovely  region,"  said  Mary ;  "  but 
I  have  looked  upon  its  beauties  for  many  years, 
Edith,  and  of  course  do  not  feel  as  enthusiastic  as 
you,  to  whom  all  wears  the  charm  of  novelty." 

Near  Mr.  Leslie's  residence  were  many  pretty 
cottages,  —  thatched  with  straw,  and  often  covered 
with  the  eglantine,  scarlet  honeysuckle,  and  jas- 
mine, —  several  of  them  occupied  by  Mr.  Leslie's 
tenants. 

Arthur  volunteered  to  be  Edith's  escort  in  her 
early  walks.  They  often,  after  a  long  stroll,  would 
stop  at  one  of  these  humble  dwellings  for  a  draught 
of  milk,  and  as  often  lend  a  willing  ear  to  a  tale  of 
sorrow  from  .the  mother  of  a  sick  child,  or  of  joy 
from  some  happy  old  cottager,  whose  little  garden 
gave  promise  of  abundance. 

The  noble  boy,  the  heir  of  this  estate,  had  a  heart 
which  warmed  in  sympathy  to  all  around  him.  His 
manners  were  so  endearing,  "  none  knew  him  but  to 
love  him."  He  was  very  anxious  to  do  every  thing 
for  Edith's  comfort ;  gathered  flowers  for  her  ;  and, 
in  boyish  gallantry,  often  tossed  them  on  her  beauti- 
ful hair,  the  luxuriance  of  which  had  been  rapidly 
restored  after  her  recovery.  He  would  laughingly 
say  to  her,  — 

"  You  are  not  fair  enough  for  a  Flora,  but  would 
make  a  famous  Dryad,  particularly  as  the  Dryads 
were  sometimes  only  genii,  never  goddesses." 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  37 

"Well,"  Edith  would  reply,  "my  imagination 
would  never  transform  you  to  Pan,  though  mamma 
says  it  is  very  fertile,  which  she  thinks  makes  me 
so  fond  of  studying  mythology ;  but,  Arthur,  I  can 
fancy  you  —  not  Apollo  or  Narcissus,  but  I  believe 
you  might  be  a  Leander :  you  seem  as  if  you  had 
energy  enough  to  swim  the  Hellespont." 

"  It  would  depend,"  he  replied,  "  upon  who  was 
my  Hero ;  and  whether  the  night  were  moonlight 
and  warm,  or  cold  and  stormy.  I  am  afraid  my  cou- 
rage would  quail  before  a  gale  of  wind  and  rough 
sea ;  so  never  natter  yourself  you  will  be  ever  any 
thing  but  the  Hero-ine  my  imagination." 

"  I  hate  puns,"  said  Edith ;  "  I  have  not  quickness 
enough  to  apply  them  as  promptly  as  they  are  spoken : 
do  not  practise  them  on  me  ;  please,  Arthur,  don't !  " 

"  Your  request  shall  be  obeyed,"  he  hastily  an- 
swered. "  I  know  exactly  how  you  feel :  you  do  not 
wish  I  should  hold  your  intellect  in  so  little  es- 
teem." 

"  Do  you  think  me  conceited  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  No  :  I  think  you  are  just  what  I  should  like  you 
to  be,  were  you  my  sister." 

"  Thank  you,  Arthur ;  that  is  exactly  what  I  should 
like  to  have  you  say,  what  I  should  like  to  have  you 
feel.  I  have  no  real  brothers  and  sisters ;  but  the 
Courtenays  are  all  very  dear  to  me.  Edward  is  so 
much  away,  I  know  less  of  him  than  of  his  sisters, 
who  are  lovely  little  girls.  Could  you  only  have 
known  Ellen,  I  am  sure  you  would  have  loved  her." 

4 


38  EDITH; 

"  Was  she  like  yon,  Edith  ?  " 
"  Like  me !  No,  indeed  :  she  was  all  gentleness 
and  sweetness,  so  calm  and  so  beautiful.  Why,  papa 
used  to  tell  me,  as  he  rubbed  his  hand  over  my  dark 
curls,  I  would  make  a  famous  Indian,  and  advised 
me  to  learn  to  play  bow-and-arrow.  But,  Arthur,  we 
have  been  walking  a  long  time,  and  your  sister 
Mary  will  wonder  where  we  are.  Let  us  go  home  : 
my  drawing  and  lessons  must  not  be  neglected  for 
these  happy  walks  ;  nor  must  your  Latin,  as  you  are 
soon  to  return  to  Eton.  I  shall  miss  you." 

Days  glided  peacefully  on,  —  few  shadows  on 
them,  —  usually  lighted  by  the  sun  of  tranquil  enjoy- 
ment, in  the  affectionate  attentions  lavished  upon  our 
heroine  ;  the  tender  consideration  for  occasional  fret- 
fulness  the  remote  effect  of  her  long  illness. 

Edith  was  no  faultless  character.  She  possessed 
a  quickness  of  temper,  which  would  at  times  exhibit 
itself  in  a  sharp  or  haughty  reply.  On  one  occasion, 
when  Mary  Leslie  had  ventured  to  advise  her  upon 
the  subject  of  novel-reading,  to  point  out  the  injury  it 
might  prove,  as  spoiling  her  taste  for  reading  of  a 
higher  order,  history,  &c.,  she  received  the  advice 
very  coolly,  and,  rising  from  her  seat  with  what  she 
considered  great  dignity,  and  tossing  back  her  curls, 
said,  rather  haughtily,  "Would  you  confine  me  to 
stupid  history  ?  —  allow  me  to  think  of  nothing  but 
old  Greeks,  Romans,  and  such  characters  ?  I  don't 
fancy  such  dry  reading  ;  I  hate  old  times."  With 
this  elegant  remark  on  her  lips,  she  passed  up  stairs 


OR,    THE    LIGHT   OF    HOME.  39 

into  the  library,  seated  herself  at  an  open  window, 
and  cried  with  vexation  at  being  advised  to  leave 
Corinne  just  as  she  had  reached  the  Capitol,  —  la 
charmante  Corinne,  her  model  of  a  woman.  She 
had  sat  some  minutes,  when  a  soft  step  near  the  door 
caused  her  to  turn,  and  Arthur  stood  before  her, 
with  a  chaplet  in  his  hand.  He  approached  her,  as 
if  to  place  it  on  her  hair.  This  moved  the  better 
part  of  her  nature  to  repentance.  She  possessed 
integrity  of  character  sufficient  to  feel  her  unworthi- 
ness  of  such  a  gift  at  that  moment ;  and  in  bitter- 
ness she  exclaimed,  "  Oh,  no,  Arthur  !  —  no,  no  !  " 
and,  passing  hastily  by  him,  rushed  into  the  parlor, 
where  Mary  was  dejectedly  seated  at  work. 

"  Forgive  me,  forgive  me,  Miss  Leslie,  I  beg  !  I 
am  so  sorry  I  dared  to  speak  to  you  as  I  did,  —  you 
who  are  so  kind  to  me !  " 

Mary  readily  granted  the  petition  for  forgiveness. 
No  outbreaks  of  temper  were  exhibited  during  the 
remainder  of  her  visit. 

Edith  learned  many  valuable  lessons  of  self-govern- 
ment from  Mary.  She  became  more  patient  under 
what  she  often  considered  personal  remarks,  and  had 
a  greater  desire  to  be  loved.  She  had  been,  at  Mrs. 
Courtenay's,  so  ceaseless  an  object  of  attention,  that 
she  had  not  taken  much  pains  to  conciliate  affection, 
and  usually  claimed  all  she  received  as  her  due. 

Arthur's  example,  too,  now  unconsciously  affected 
her.  The  calm  dignity  he  possessed,  for  one  so 
young ;  the  perfect  sweetness  of  his  disposition  ;  his 


40  EDITH; 

kind  attentions  to  her ;  his  patient  forbearance  when- 
ever she  had  been  irritated ;  his  readiness  to  oblige, 
even  at  the  sacrifice  of  his  own  feelings,  —  could  not 
fail  to  impress  her  sensitive  nature ;  and  she  insensi- 
bly learned  to  consider  him  her  guide  in  all  their 
plans  for  amusement,  and  her  counsellor  in  all  diffi- 
culties in  which  she  might  be  involved. 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  41 


CHAPTER     VIII. 


''The  hollow  dash  of  waves,  the  ceaseless  roar! 

Be  still,  them  sea-bird,  with  thy  clanging  cry ! 

My  spirit  sickens  as  thy  wing  sweeps  by. 

The  heavy -rolling  surge,  the  rocking  mast : 

Hush!  give  my  dream's  deep  music  way,  thou  blast! 

The  white  foam  dashes  high !    Away !  away  ! 

Shroud  the  green  land  no  more,  thou  blinding  spray !  " 


EDITH  was  soon  expected  at  Mr.  Courtenay's ;  yet  she 
lingered  day  after  day,  unwilling  to  leave  scenes  so 
hallowed  by  tenderness,  so  picturesque  in  their  love- 
liness, even  for  home.  The  beautiful  village  of 
Glendale  —  one  of  those  truly  English  villages,  with 
its  church  which  "  points  its  taper  spire  to  heaven ;  " 
its  thatched  cottages  and  green  lawns  ;  its  old  mill ;. 
its  banks  covered  with  primroses,  cowslips,  and 
"  lords  and  ladies,"  which  grew  near  brooks  gurgling 
through  meadows  —  had  become  so  dear  to  her,  that 
she  felt  reluctant  to  give  them  up,  even  while  she 
knew  her  presence  was  needed  in  Mrs.  Courtenay's 
family,  to  supply,  in  some  degree,  the  place  of  Ellen. 
Her  health,  too,  was  perfectly  established ;  and  what 
excuse  was  there  to  prolong  her  stay  ?  She  could 
draw  at  home,  even  if  Arthur  were  not  there  to  cor- 

4* 


42  EDITH; 

rect  her  faults  in  perspective,  Matilda  to  share  her 
studies,  or  Mary  to  stimulate  her  efforts  by  judicious 
praise. 

At  the  thought  of  her  mother,  left  with  only  the 
younger  children  during  her  husband's  business- 
visits  in  London,  her  heart  smote  her  for  being  so 
selfishly  fond  of  Glendale,  when  hitherto  Milton  had 
been  all  in  all  to  her. 

Her  love  of  nature  had  been  strengthened  by  fre- 
quent walks  and  drives  with  Mary,  —  a  highly 
cultivated  and  intelligent  woman,  who  took  pleasure 
in  directing  Edith's  attention  to  objects  of  interest, 
and,  by  her  well-chosen  remarks,  impressing  them 
indelibly  on  her  memory.  They  often  strolled, 
towards  sunset,  to  some  secluded  spot,  where  Mary 
would  repeat  passages  from  Goldsmith's  "  Deserted 
Village,"  and  recognize,  amid  the  many  voices  which 
fell  upon  her  ear  from  a  distance,  "  the  swain  respon- 
sive as  the  milkmaid  sung-; "  or,  in  the  aged  woman 
by  the  brook,  — 

"  that  widowed,  solitary  thing, 
That  feehly  bends  beneath  the  plashy  spring,  — 
The  wretched  matron,  forced  in  age,  for  bread, 
To  strip  th^brook  with  mantling  cresses  spread." 

But  the  hour  of  parting  came;  the  last  words 
were  to  be  spoken.  Poor  Edith !  she  wept  on 
Mary's  neck,  kissed  Matilda  again  and  again,  and 
blushingly  bade  farewell  to  Arthur  as  he  &hook  her 
by  the  hand.  He  detained  it  for  a  moment ;  and, 
as  she  turned  her  large  dark  eyes  to  his  face,  she 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  43 

saw  his  own  glistening,  as  if  tearful.  Mr.  Leslie 
gave  her  a  hearty  embrace.  "  Don't  forget  us  ! "  was 
echoed  through  the  hall.  The  carriage  drove  off: 
she  was  gone ! 

We  may  be  forgiven  for  saying  we  could  dwell 
upon  this  period  of  Edith's  life  a  little  longer :  it 
was  a  beautiful  episode ;  and  who  would  not  linger 
over  happy  days  of  girlhood,  particularly  when  passed 
in  England,  with  all  its  associations  of  picturesque 
beauty,  its  cottages,  flowers,  and  hawthorn  hedges  ? 
But  the  reader  (should  we  find  one)  may,  after  all, 
weary  of  such  endless  descriptions.  For  the  present, 
then,  we  will  leave  them. 

Edith's  arrival  in  Milton  was  hailed  by  all  with 
great  joy.  Hardly  could  it  be  believed  the  bright, 
animated  being  who  sprang  from  the  carriage,  and 
stood  in  the  hall,  was  the  pale,  attenuated  girl,  who, 
but  a  few  weeks  previous,  had  left  it  so  wearily. 
The  air  of  Glendale,  —  how  it  had  improved  her ! 
Marion  lifted  one  of  her  jetty  ringlets,  and  exclaimed, 
"  See,  mamma,  how  her  hair  has  grown !  and  what 
a  beautiful  black  it  is  !  "  She  was  turned  round  by 
all,  Jenny  not  excepted,  gazed  upon,  and  kissed,  as 
if  she  had  been  gone  a  year. 

A  feeling  of  reproach  throbbed  at  her  heart  as  she 
remembered  her  regret  at  leaving  Glendale,  —  regret 
to  be  restored  to  beings  who  loved  her  so  fondly. 
Could  she  have  been  so  ungrateful  ?  In  the  impulse 
of  remorseful  feeling  at  her  selfishness,  she  threw 
herself  into  her  mother's  arms,  and,  with  tearful 


44  EDITH; 

eyes,  said,  "  Dearest  mamma !  how  grateful  I  am  for 
this  heartfelt  welcome,  when  I  have  been  such  a 
truant ! "  Her  mother  drew  her  closer  to  her  heart, 
and  said,  "  My  dear  girl,  I  have  indeed  missed  you  ; 
but  I  knew  you  were  -so  happy  at  Glendale,  I  had 
not  the  courage  to  ask  you  to  return." 

"  Well,"  I  mean  to  stay  at  home  for  a  long 

time  " At  that  moment  Caroline  whispered, 

"Edith,  you  and  I  are  going  to  boarding-school 
soon."  A  cloud  was  on  her  brow  :  she  shuddered. 
How  was  she  to  bear  school-discipline  after  the 
teaching  of  Mary  and  Arthur  ?  Her  heart  sank  for 
a  time ;  but,  finding  that  what  was  called  soon  would 
not  be  until  the  autumn,  she  determined  to  enjoy  all 
she  could  before  the  dreaded  period  should  arrive. 

Spring  had  yielded  to  summer ;  and  Mr.  Cburte- 
nay  decided  to  pass  the  hot  weather  at  Margate. 
There  was  great  delight  with  the  children  in  helping 
pack  the  trunks,  and  assisting  in  other  preparations 
for  the  visit  to  the  seaside.  When  all  was  accom- 
plished, and  they  stepped  on  board  the  yacht  which 
was  to  convey  them  to  Margate,  their  joy  knew  no 
bounds.  Every  thing  was  so  new,  so  beautiful,  the 
arrangements  for  the  trip  so  convenient ;  and  then 
the  cabin,  the  bustle  on  deck,  the  singing  voices  of 
the  sailors  as  they  prepared  for  sea,  the  heaving  of  the 
anchor,  &c.,  had  such  charms,  they  all  felt  as  if  in 
an  enchanted  palace,  floating  on  the  waves.  But 
some  of  the  party,  soon  realizing  they  were  at  sea, 
were  glad  to  go  below,  and  crawl  into  their  berths, 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  45 

and  acknowledged,  when  they  landed  on  Margate 
pier,  they  were  "  glad  the  voyage  was  over." 

A  handsome  and  beautifully  situated  house,  ready 
furnished,  had  been  engaged.  The  family  were  soon 
settled,  and  all  but  Mrs.  Courtenay  bright  and  cheer- 
ful. Her  afflicted  spirit  sought  consolation  where 
alone  it  is  to  be  found ;  and,  as  she  moved  quietly 
and  calmly  in  the  performance  of  duty  in  her  family, 
strangers  would  have  called  her  happy:  but  there 
was  an  eye  which  penetrated  the  recesses  of  her 
heart,  and  knew  how  deeply  she  sorrowed  for  her 
children.  She  had,  perhaps,  loved  Ellen  with  a  more 
devoted  affection  than  she  was  aware.  She  had 
always  been  very  proud  of  this  daughter,  as  a  child 
of  uncommon  promise.  She  had  beheld  her,  a  sweet, 
bewitching  little  girl,  engaging  in  the  rudiments  of 
her  education  with  all  the  ardor  of  youth  and  genius, 
—  gay,  innocent,  void  of  care,  looking  forward  to  a 
long  life  of  health  and  happiness.  She  had  seen  her 
full  of  youth  and  beauty,  the  delight  of  the  family 
circle ;  had  watched  the  insidious  approaches  of  dis- 
ease ;  had  seen  her  beauty  fade  away ;  had  sat  by 
her  bedside  through  her  brief  but  wasting  illness ; 
had  witnessed  her  patience  and  calmness ;  and  had 
received  her  last  sigh  on  her  bosom.  Was  it  strange 
that  thought  should  sometimes  be  agony  ? 

The  out-of-doors  life  of  the  young  people  was  per- 
fect in  its  enjoyment.  Part  of  every  day  was  given 
to  walking  on  the  "  Sands,"  where  they  would  spend 
an  hour  or  two  gathering  marine  plants,  or  collecting 


46  EDITH; 

shells.  They  were  always  accompanied  by  Edith ; 
and,  whenever  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Courtenay  were  unable 
to  be  with  them,  Jenny  acted  as  attendant,  to  help 
carry  the  baskets,  and  guard  them  from  too  near  an 
approach  to  the  sea.  The  Sands  were  often  thronged 
by  gay  groups  of  bathers,  or  persons  lounging  in 
morning  strolls,  before  the  fashionable  hour  arrived 
for  visiting  the  libraries,  when  they  were  deserted 
by  all  but  children  and  their  attendants. 

On  one  of  those  lovely  mornings,  when  every 
thing  in  nature  seemed  rejoicing  in  life  and  light, 
the  young  Courtenays,  Edith,  *  and  Jenny,  were 
equipped  for  an  excursion  to  the  Sands,  their  baskets 
on  their  arms  for  marine  treasures,  animation  in 
every  movement,  and  glee  in  every  heart,  at  the 
anticipations  of  what  would  be  brought  home. 

They  arrived  on  the  beach,  —  found  many  shells, 
lovely  seaweeds,  &c.  They  continued  to  wander  on, 
hardly  looking  up,  so  intent  were  they  all  upon  the 
search  for  what  Edith  called  "  gems  of  the  ocean," 
when  a  sudden  darkness  called  Jenny's  attention  to 
the  sky,  which  had  become  overcast  almost  to  black- 
ness over  the  sea.  These  startling  changes  in  the 
weather  are  very  common  in  England :  they  are  often 
so  sudden  as  to  give  the  traveller  but  little  warning 
to  seek  shelter.  Large  drops  of  rain  soon  fell,  and 
other  indications  of  a  storm  succeeded.  Jenny 
turned  abruptly  towards  the  .ocean,  saw  these  fearful 
evidences  of  danger,  and  then,  for  the  first  time, 
noticed  that  the  projections  of  cliffs  over  which  they 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  47 

must  pass  were  submerged.  "  The  tide !  the  tide !  " 
she  exclaimed  in  agony  of  terror;  "the  rocks  are 
under  water  !  What'will  become  of  us  if  we  do  not 
hurry  on7  O  Miss  Edith !  do  try  to  hasten  the 
children,  I  beg  of  you  !  On  !  on !  or  we  are  lost !  " 
Edith's  agitation  was  extreme :  she  felt  how  careless 
both  herself  and  Jenny  had  been,  thus  to  wander  on, 
regardless  of  time  and  distance.  There  seemed  no 
help  at  hand.  Seizing  little  Marion's  wrist,  she 
dragged  her  onwards  as  rapidly  as  her  trembling 
limbs  would  allow.  But  the  wind  had  risen  to  a 
gale ;  the  spray  almost  blinded  her ;  and  she  often 
bowed  beneath  the  force  of  the  storm.  Still  ^he 
grasped  the  child  firmly,  and  tried  to  soothe  her 
alarm  by  cheering  words.  There  was  so  much  at 
stake ;  the  lives  of  the  children,  her  own  life,  de- 
pended upon  extraordinary  effort ;  and  she  screamed 
aloud, ""  Help  !  help  !  For  God's  sake,  help  !  " 

The  dark  mass  of  waters  came  rushing  in,  dashing 
in  wild  fury  against,  and  even  over,  their  land- 
marks. Still  her  words  spoke  hopefully;  still  she 
urged  her  way,  her  feet  wet  with  the  waves,  which 
every  minute  broke  over  them,  and  at  intervals 
seemed  ready  to  sweep  the  wretched  little  group  out 
into  the  sea.  Jenny  shrieked  for  help ;  but  both 
the  voices  were  apparently  lost  in  the  lashing  of  the 
surge,  the  roaring  of  the  wind. 

The  wild  tumult  for  one  moment  was  lulled,  when, 
exerting  themselves  to  their  utmost  strength,  Jenny 
and  Edith  screamed  again,  "  Help  !  children  !  help  !  " 


48  EDITH; 

Suddenly  a  loud  voice  was  heard,  which  shouted, 
"  Holloa !  holloa !  "  and  gazing  from  the  cliff  were 
two  stout  fellows,  who,  as  the  desolate  children 
turned  their  eyes  upwards,  said,  "  Be  of  good  cheer ; 
we  can  help  you  up  the  cliffs;  keep  still;  never 
fear  ;  the  worst  is  over." 

They  came  rapidly  down  the  sides,  and,  snatching 
the  younger  ones,  soon  landed  them  safely;  then 
returned  for  Jenny  and  Edith,  who  stood  shivering, 
covered  with  spray,  and  with  so  slippery  a  foothold 
as  to  be  in  danger  of  falling'  on  the  sands,  or  being 
swept  off  by  the  tide.  The  cliffs  were  fortunately 
neither  very  high  nor  very  steep,  and,  although 
apparently  inaccessible  to  young  people,  were  easily 
scaled  by  stout  men. 

They  placed  the  party  in  safety,  above  the  roaring 
tide ;  and  poor  Jenny,  as  she  surveyed  the  forlorn 
group,  dripping  with  wet,  burst  into  an  agony  of 
tears.  Edith's  black  hair,  drenched  with  salt  water, 
hung  in  heavy  masses  over  her  shoulders,  while  her 
large  dark  eyes  seemed  distended  by  horror  at  what 
she  had  suffered  both  mentally  and  physically. 

One  of  the  men,  after  surveying  the  party  very 
benevolently,  and  as  if  in  pity  of  their  condition, 
said  to  Jenny,  "  Young  woman,  don't  stand  crying 
there,  but  think  of  these  children  in  wet  clothes. 
Where  do  they  belong  ?  Wipe  your  eyes,  and  tell 
us  where  you  live,  and  we'll  get  a  conveyance  to 
take  you  there." 

At  that  moment,  a  carriage  was  seen  driving  furi- 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  49 

ously  towards  the  scene  of  trouble.  Mr.  Courtenay 
leaped  from  it,  apparently  in  great  consternation. 
He  looked  at  the  children  almost  in  dismay,  as  he 
saw  their  drenched  garments  and  pale  faces ;  but, 
knowing  the  anxiety  their  mother  was  suffering,  he 
allowed  himself  no  time  for  the  indulgence  of  feel- 
ing, but,  hurrying  them,  with  Jenny,  into  the  car- 
riage, bade  the  coachman  hasten  home  with  all 
rapidity.  He  had  seen  the  storm  approaching,  and, 
finding  the  children  had  not  returned,  became  ex- 
cessively alarmed ;  ordered  the  carriage  to  hasten  to 
the  cliffs,  in  an  agony  of  terror  at  what  might  await 
him  on  his  arrival.  When  he  found  them  all  safe, 
the  revulsion  of  feeling  was  so  great  as  to  require 
the  utmost  self-command  j  but  it  was  not  until  they 
were  driving  homewards  he  exhibited  any  emotion. 
Caroline  and  Marion  began  eagerly  to  relate  the 
adventure,  begging  Jenny  might  not  be  blamed. 

"  No  one  shall  be  blamed,  my  dears,"  said  Mr. 
Courtenay  ;  "  we  will  only  be  thankful  to  God  for 
preserving  you  from  the  overwhelming  tide.  Never 
again  run  such  a  risk.  You  have  miraculously  es- 
caped being  drowned." 

The  men,  it  appeared,  had  been  at  work  in  the 
grounds  above  the  cliffs,  and  were  just  leaving,  to 
wait  until  the  storm  passed  over,  when  they  thought 
they  heard  a  cry  of  distress.  They  had  noticed  the  lit- 
tle party  some  time  before,  but  concluded  they  had  left 
the  Sands.  As  the  wind  lulled,  they  listened,  and,  feel- 
ing certain  it  was  some  one  in  danger,  came  to  their 

6 


50  EDITH; 

assistance.  They  were  liberally  rewarded  for  their 
adventurous  aid,  and  the  affair  produced  no  disas- 
trous results.  It  was  a  long  time  ere  any  walks  to 
the  Sands  were  allowed,  and  then  only  when  Mr. 
Courtenay  could  go. 

Edith's  imagination,  very  vivid  even  in  girlhood, 
always  treasured  the  memory  of  this  scene  with 
peculiar  tenacity.  She  very  frequently  reverted  to 
it.  The  roaring  tide,  the  suddenly  darkened  sky, 
the  screams  of  the  sea-gull,  the  rushing  wind,  were 
clearly  in  her  mind  years  afterwards  ;  and  often,  as 
she  stood,  in  other  lands,  on  a  bold  rocky  coast,  did 
she  call  up  that  fearful  hour,  when,  in  childish  help- 
lessness, she  struggled  on  the  stormy  beach  of  Mar- 
gate, with  her  adopted  sisters,  depending  on  God 
alone  to  guide  some  protecting  hand  by  which 
they  might  be  rescued  from  their  perilous  situa- 
tion.* 

In  a  week  or  two,  Edward  Courtenay  joined  his 
family  for  a  brief  vacation.  He  was  about  fifteen 
months  older  than  Edith,  who  was  very  strongly  at- 
tached to  him.  Never  was  a  happier  vacation  :  the 
young  people  were  so  desirous  to  make  time  pass 
pleasantly,  they  accompanied  him  in  his  walks ; 
often  going  some  distance  to  a  rural  spot,  where 
they  dined  in  a  grove  of  magnificent  elms,  danced 


*  The  description  of  this  scene  on  Margate  Sands  may  bear  some  resemblance 
to  the  storm  in  the  "  Antiquary."  It  occurred  before  the  "  Antiquary"  was  written. 
The  incidents  are  strictly  true,  though  but  imperfectly  sketched.  The  party  very 
narrowly  escaped  a  frightful  death,  the  author  being  one  of  the  number. 


OK,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  51 

on  the  green,  and,  decking  themselves  with  flowers, 
laughed  away  the  happy  hours  until  time  to  return, 
which  poor  Jenny  would  unceasingly  tell  them  must 
be  an  hour  earlier  than  they  wished  :  but  she  watched 
the  clouds,  and,  if  one  appeared  "  no  larger  than  a 
man's  hand,"  she  predicted  a  shower. 

Sometimes  Mr.  Courtenay  and  their  mother  went 
off  in  a  boat  with  them  along  the  coast,  guided  by 
a  skilful  sailor  as  pilot.  This  was  particularly  de- 
lightful to  Edward,  who  had  always  expressed  a 
fondness  for  the  sea.  A  row  along  the  coast,  — how 
exciting  it  was !  and  how  the  silvery  laugh  would 
echo  among  the  cliffs,  as  the  children  dashed  the 
water  in  Edward's  face,  to  give  him,  as  they  said,  a 
taste  of  the  sea. 

A  trip  to  Dover,  to  visit  the  Castle,  finished  the 
pleasure  excursions  ;  for  the  summer  was  gone.  All 
returned  to  Milton  in  the  yacht  which  conveyed 
them  to  Margate ;  but  the  charm  of  the  wide  sea 
was  over..  The  memory  of  the  scene  on  the  Sands 
was  too  fresh,  the  escape  from  the  stormy  waves  too 
sadly  impressed,  not  to  cast  a  gloom  over  the  party 
as  the  little  vessel  bounded  homewards  under  a  stiff 
breeze. 

Mrs.  Harcourt  and  Margaret  were  well ;  but  the 
latter  was  a  striking  contrast,  in  her  delicacy  of  ap- 
pearance, to  the  sun-burnt,  rosy-cheeked  Courtenays, 
who  all  looked  as  if  health  and  bloom  had  been 
inhaled  in  every  breeze  at  Margate.  They  were 
delighted  to  meet  each  other ;  and  many  were  the 


52  EDITH; 

hours  passed  in  relating  the  adventures  of  the  last 
three  months,  until  Margaret's  imagination  was  also 
filled  with  the  beauty  and  grandeur  of  the  scenery. 
The  shells  and  seaweeds  were  shared  with  her. 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  53 


CHAPTER    IX. 


"  The  leaving  of  the  university  may  fade  from  the  recollection ;  its  classic  lore 
may  moulder  in  the  halls  of  memory  :  but  the  simple  lessons  of  home,  enamelled 
upon  the  heart  of  childhood,  defy  the  rust  of  years,  and  outlive  the  more  mature, 
but  less  vivid,  pictures  of  after-days.  Deep  and  lasting  indeed  are  the  impressions 
of  early  life." 


Now  came  the  time  for  selecting  the  boarding-school : 
so  much  dreaded  was  it,  that  the  family  seemed  to 
lose  their  spirits  in  the  prospect  of  parting  with 
Edith  and  Caroline.  But  it  must  be  done,  as  the 
town  of  Milton  afforded  not  the  advantages  of  edu- 
cation so  appreciated  in  England  by  those  whose 
situation  commanded  means  for  having  their  children 
thoroughly  instructed.  It  was  decided  they  should 
go  to  Mrs.  Lanmeer's,  in  Rochester,  which  to  other 
recommendations  had  that  of  being  near  Edward, 
whose  school  was  in  that  city. 

Good  Mrs.  Harcourt,  who  could  not  bear  this 
sending  children  from  home,  really  grieved  at  the 
prospect  of  separation.  She  rather  injudiciously 
pitied  the  two  girls,  until  they  magnified  school  re- 
straint almost  into  prison  discipline.  And  Margaret 
Granville  added  her  share  to  their  discomfort  by 
saying,  "  I  am  glad  it  is  not  I :  but  my  grandmam- 

5* 


54  EDITH; 

ma  would  never  consent  to  sending  me  from  home." 
The  fire  flashed  from  Edith's  eyes  as  she  haughtily- 
said,  — 

"  Cast  no  reflections  on  our  mamma.  Do  you 
imagine  either  she  or  Mr.  Courtenay  would  send  us 
away  but  for  our  good  ?  How  are  we  to  be  properly 
educated  in  this  small  town  ?  You  will  have  to  go 
away  some  day." 

Edith  felt  Margaret's  remark  to  the  quick.  She 
feared  the  slightest  imputation  on  her  mother's 
kindness,  and  knew  full  well  how  she  suffered  at 
the  thought  even  of  parting.  But,  in  a  moment, 
her  better  nature  prevailed  :  she  remembered  Mar- 
garet was  motherless  as  herself  in  reality,  though 
equally  blessed  in  friends  ;  and,  turning  suddenly  to 
her,  she  said, — 

"  Do  forgive  me,  dear  Margaret !  Do  not  think  of 
my  rude  manner  ;  for  I  would  not  offend  one  so 
much  younger  than  myself,  any  more  than  one  of 
my  own  age." 

Margaret  readily  extended  her  hand,  and,  as  the 
tears  filled  her  eyes,  said,  — 

"  Oh !  I  am  not  offended ;  but  I  was  sorry  to  have 
you  speak  as  you  did,  because  you  are  so  soon  going 
away." 

It  was  a  lesson  to  Edith  not  soon  forgotten.  The 
words  "  going  away  "  sounded  in  her  ears  long  after' 
the  air  had  ceased  to  echo  them ;  and  she  would 
afterwards  say,  mentally,  "Are  we  not  all  going 
away  from  life,  its  pleasures,  its  praises,  its  pains,  its 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  55 

heart-burnings  ?  "Why  imbitter  the  short  period 
allotted  us  by  any  utterances  we  may  regret  when 
summoned  where  every  idle  word  is  to  be  accounted 
for  ?  " 

During  the  preparations  for  her  departure,  Edith 
passed  two  days  at  Glendale  Farm. 

Arthur  had  gone  to  Eton,  and  every  thing  seemed 
so  changed.  Matilda,  too,  had  returned  to  school. 
Edith  tried  to  laugh,  as  Mary  Leslie  rallied  her  on 
her  serious  face,  when  she  found  Arthur  was  not  at 
home,  telling  her  how  much  they  had  missed  her 
after  her  spring  visit;  that  her  brother  used  to  be 
very  sentimental ;  would  repeatedly  say,  "  What  a 
change  since  Edith  left  us !  How  I  miss  her  light 
step  tripping  over  the  piazza,  her  wild  birdlike  sing- 
ing as  she  stooped  for  flowers,  and,  above  all,  her 
saucy  rebukes  to  me  for  not  admiring  Lord  Oswald 
or  Corinna !  " 

Edith  could  not  forbear  a  smile  at  what  Mary 
called  Arthur's  sentimentality ;  but  she  treasured  it 
up,  for  she  wanted  to  be  associated  in  his  mind  with 
things  so  pleasant  as  flowers,  birdlike  singing,  &c.  She 
did  not  say  how  much  she  missed  him ;  but  she  strolled 
into  the  walks  and  lanes  they  had  trodden  together, 
and  loitered  over  a  rose-bush,  which  had  a  single 
flower,  the  last  of  the  season  (for  the  gardens  now 
were  stripped  of  all  summer  beauties).  She  plucked 
the  solitary  rose,  meaning  to  preserve  it ;  but  her 
romance  fled  before  the  melancholy  fact  that  it  fell 
to  pieces,  and  the  petals  were  scattered  by  the  breeze. 


56  EDITH; 

"  Jenny  would  call  this  an  omen,"  thought  Edith  ; 
"  but  I  do  not.  I  merely  think  the  rose  had  lived 
as  long  on  the  bush  as  it  could  ;  and  when 

'  I  Bnapped  it  too  rudely,  alas ! ' 
Why, '  it  fell  to  the  ground.'  " 

The  afternoon  previous  to  leaving  Glendale,  she 
went  with  Mary  to  all  their  familiar  haunts ;  stopped 
before  the  "  hawthorn-bush  beneath  the  shade,"  its 
flowers  long  since  departed  ;  shook  down  the  ripe 
chestnuts  and  the  filberts;  walked  round  the  gar- 
den, called  on  the  shepherd,  and  ascended  the  little 
hill,  from  which  they  could  see  the  sun  go  down  in 
almost  cloudless  beauty.  Both  were  silent,  until 
Edith  said,  dejectedly,  "  O  Miss  Leslie !  that  hate- 
ful boarding-school !  How  I  dread  it !  and  how  often 
I  shall  come  back  in  imagination  to  this  place ! 
What  can  make  up  to  me  its  loss,  and  a  separation 
for  months  from  all  I  love  but  Caroline  ?  —  and  she 
is  too  young  to  enter  into  my  feelings." 

Mary  cheered  her  by  saying  she  would  "  write 
and  tell  her  how  all  things  went  on;  the  price  of 
hay,  wheat,  and  barley ;  every  thing  concerning  the 
spring  broods,  &c.,  the  most  interesting  of  details." 

"  Will  you  tell  me  of  Matilda  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  and,  what  you  would  prefer,  I  will  tell 
you  of  Arthur,  —  his  progress  at  Eton." 

"  Don't  you  think  Arthur  very  good,  as  well  as 
very  handsome  ?  "  said  Edith,  ingenuously. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mary ;  "  he  is  a  noble-minded,  ex- 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.         ,  57 

cellent  fellow.  There  is  no  subject  on  which  I  so 
love  to  dwell  as  my  brother.  For  one  so  young, 
he  has  remarkable  characteristics  :  so  strong  a  love 
of  truth  ;  such  independence ;  dauntless  and  well- 
directed,  too,  never  displayed  haughtily,  or,  indeed, 
in  any  improper  way,  but  the  rule  of  his  general 
conduct.  He  dares  at  eighteen  to  act  and  speak  the 
truth  like  a  man  of  twenty-five.  I  have  heard  papa 
say  he  never  caused  him  an  anxious  hour.  I  believe, 
Edith,  his  excellence  in  conduct  is  wholly  owing  to 
a  deep  religious  sense.  He  makes  no  parade  of  his 
feelings  ;  still  they  are  very  earnest,  I  know.  But 
the  sun  has  gone  down,  and  we  are  still  far  from 
home  :  it  is  becoming  very  damp.  We  must  hurry 
on,  and  leave  Arthur's  panegyric  until  a  future 
day." 

Edith  placed  her  arm  within  her  friend's,  merely 
saying,  "  I  wish  we  were  not  obliged  to  go  home 
yet.  Why  could  not  the  sun  have  waited  for  us  ?  " 

The  next  day,  Edith  returned  to  Milton.  The 
weather  had  changed ;  the  clouded  sky  appeared  as 
sad  as  her  own  feelings  at  parting  with  Mr.  Leslie  and 
Mary.  As  she  stepped  into  the  carriage  which  was 
to  convey  her  home,  some  large  raindrops  fell. 
Mary  smiled  as  she  said,  "  The  heavens  weep  your 
departure  as  I  probably  shall."  The  adieus  were 
made,  and  once  more  Edith  was  travelling  home- 
wards. 


58  EDITH 


CHAPTER     X. 


'  Now  in  thy  youth  beseech  of  Him, 

Who  giveth,  upbraiding  not, 
That  his  light  in  thy  heart  become  not  dun, 

And  his  love  be  unforgot ; 
And  thy  God,  in  the  darkest  of  days,  will  be 
Greenness  and  beauty  and  strength  to  thee." 


THERE  was  something  exciting  in  the  preparations 
for  the  children's  departure.  Caroline  and  Edith 
called  on  their  mother's  friends  to  say  good-by ;  were 
loaded  with  presents  as  tokens  of  regard,  and  the 
kindest  wishes,  with  promises  exacted  to  visit  all  in 
the  Christmas  holidays.  The  dread  of  the  school 
seemed  to  diminish ;  and  they  both  began  to  hope 
the  tales  they  had  heard  of  tyranny,  &c.,  might  have 
been  exaggerated.  At  length  the  day  arrived. 
Grandmamma  Harcourt  was  the  last  to  be  visited. 
She  and  Margaret  were  much  grieved  at  losing  their 
young  friends ;  but  were  tolerably  cheerful,  at  least 
externally. 

The  carriage  drove  to  the  door ;  the  trunks  were 
lashed  on ;  the  servants  stood  with  their  aprons  at 
their  eyes.  Jenny  sobbed  aloud.  Marion  cried  with 
the  rest,  as  in  duty  bound.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Courtenay 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  59 

seated  themselves,  the  children  followingj  and  strain- 
ing their  eyes  from  the  carriage  windows"  for  one 
more  look.  The  door  was  closed ;  "  smack  went  the 
whip,  round  went  the  wheels  ;  "  and  soon  the  turn  in 
the  street  hid  them  from  sight.  The  distance  was 
but  eighteen  miles  ;  and,  in  what  appeared  a  very 
short  time,  the  old  Cathedral  of  Rochester  was  seen. 
In  a  few  minutes  more,  the  carriage  stopped  before 
the  massive  entrance  of  "  Elms-gate  House,"  and  all 
were  soon  in  the  presence  of  Mrs.  Lanmeer.  She 
received  the  party  very  graciously,  —  was  dignified, 
ladylike,  and  affable. 

Edith's  countenance  became  pale ;  her  heart  beat 
violently  ;  her  feelings  were  indescribable. 

After  all  the  directions  were  given,  the  studies 
named,  charges  most  earnestly  reiterated  concerning 
the  health  of  the  two  pupils,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Courte- 
nay  rose  to  depart.  Caroline  clung  to  her  father, 
imploring  him  not  to  leave  her.  He  turned  to  the 
window  to  conceal  his  emotions,  the  child  still  hang- 
ing on  his  arm.  He  pressed  his  head  against  the 
panes  of  glass ;  and,  as  Edith  approached  him,  the 
big  tears  fell  on  his  cheeks.  She  spoke  to  him  : 
"  Dear  Mr.  Courtenay  !  —  papa  !  "  Her  lips  had 
never  before  thus  named  him.  The  effort  was  a 
desperate  one  ;  but  the  sight  of  his  tears  brought  to 
her  the  thought  of  what  her  father  would  have  suf- 
fered thus  to  part  with  her.  From  the  fountain  of  her 
deep  love  welled  up  a  gush  of  tenderness  she  tried 
not  to  check;  and,  as  he  stooped  to  kiss  her,  she 


60  EDITH; 

clasped  his  neck,  and  said,  "  I  will  be  kind  to  Caro- 
line at  all  times.  You  are  my  own  dear  papa ;  trust 
her  to  me."  "  Willingly,  my  dearest  Edith,"  was 
the  reply.  "  I  have  perfect  confidence  that  you  will 
be  a  watchful  guardian  over  my  child's  happiness.  I 
do  not  believe  I  could  leave  her,  were  you  not  with 
her."  Mr.  Courtenay  pressed  both  the  children  in 
his  arms,  and  left  the  room.  Mrs.  Courtenay  stood 
in  agonized  struggles  for  composure.  She  clasped 
the  girls  again  and  again  in  her  embrace,  gave  the 
fervent  "  Good-by  !  God  bless  you  both  !  "  and  was 
gone. 

When  the  door  closed,  and  the  retreating  wheels 
died  in  the  distance,  Edith  wrung  her  hands  in  de- 
spair. Caroline  threw  herself  on  a  sofa,  and  gave 
vent  to  her  sorrow  in  a  passionate  burst  of  grief. 
Edith  echoed  every  sob,  until,  fearing  the  child  would 
be  ill,  she  exerted  herself  to  the  utmost  to  comfort 
her.  Mrs.  Lanmeer  sent  for  Edward,  whose  school 
was  near ;  and  as  he  had  seen  his  parents  after  they 
left  East  Gate,  and  brought  messages  of  endearment, 
they  became  more  calm  towards  the  afternoon.  They 
did  not  go  into  the  schoolroom  that  evening  until 
prayer-time,  when  Mrs.  Lanmeer  ushered  them  among 
nearly  one  hundred  pupils  ;  mentioned  their  names  ; 
requested  some  of  the  young  ladies  to  be  kind  to 
them  ;  and,  when  prayers  were  over,  they  retired  for 
the  night. 

The  chamber  contained  several  beds,  with  pretty 
white  curtains,  — .every  thing  so  neat,  and  in  accord- 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  61 

ance  with  perfect  order.  The  girls  knelt,  as  was 
the  home-custom,  at  the  side  of  their  bed,  and  of- 
fered up  their  humble  petition  at  the  throne  of  grace ; 
but  poor  Caroline,  when  she  came  to  the  words 
"  God  bless  dear  papa  and  mamma ! "  burst  into  a 
fresh  torrent  of  tears.  Edith,  who  understood  the 
cause  of  the  renewed  grief,  hushed  her  to  sleep  in 
her  arms. 

The  two  young  ladies  who  occupied  the  adjoining 
bed  were  disposed  to  be  what,  in  an  English  board- 
ing-school, are  often  called  "  quizzers."  One  of 
them  commenced  her  refined  mode  of  attack  by  ask- 
ing Edith,  "  What  is  your  papa's  business,  or  pro- 
fession, Miss  Dacres  ?  " 

"  Papa  was  an  officer  in  the  army.  He  died  of 
wounds  in  Canada  during  the  late  war  in  America. 
Caroline  Courtenay's  parent  is  an  American  mer- 
chant," —  and  her  high  spirit  kindled  as  she  conti- 
nued,—  "called,  in  his  country,  princes." 

"  Oh !  "  said  Miss  Gunning,  I  presume  you  will 
despise  me,  then ;  for  my  father  is  a  mechanic." 
(This  was  a  falsehood.) 

"  Not  at  all,"  Edith  said,  in  a  very  independent 
manner  ;  "  I  have  been  taught  not  to  regard  the 
occupation,  but  the  man.  I  don't  believe,  when  you 
know  more  of  me,  you  will  think  me  so  unjust." 

"  You  are  a  brave  girl,  at  any  rate,"  replied  the 
other ;  "  and  I  will  never  try  to  tease  you  again." 
And,  springing  from  her  bed,  kissed  the  sad  stranger, 
and  good-naturedly  bade  her  good  night." 

6 


62  EDITH; 

Though  Edith  was  not  fourteen,  she  was  armed 
with  principles  so  firmly  fixed  as  to  repel  all  attacks. 
Her  heart  beat  warmly  beneath  the  aegis  ;  but  it 
beat  steadily  and  unflinchingly  at  the  call  of  duty. 
She  had  very  little  sleep  that  night,  and  arose  in 
the  morning  forlorn  and  dejected  :  no  bright  smile 
cheered  her,  no  fond  salutation  greeted  her. 

After  breakfast,  the  pupils  had  an  hour  for  recrea- 
tion in  the  playground,  where  all  manner  of  sports 
were  practised,  —  ball,  skipping  the  rope,  battledoor, 
&c.  The  scholars  seemed  perfectly  free,  and  enjoy- 
ment was  the  order  of  the  hour.  The  two  strangers 
looked  on  for  some  time,  no  one  seeming  to  care 
that  they  were  strangers,  when  a  lovely  looking  girl, 
with  blue  eyes  and  flaxen  hair,  advanced,  and  asked 
them  to  join  in  the  sports.  Taking  a  hand  of  each, 
she  led  them  to  a  group  who  were  playing  "  drop 
the  handkerchief."  From  that  sort  of  sympathy 
which  so  strongly  connects  the  young,  they  soon 
became  quite  interested,  and  played  cheerfully  until 
the  bell  was  rung  for  the  school  to  commence. 

Edith  and  Caroline  were  placed  under  the  particu- 
lar care  of  one  of  the  teachers,  a  Miss  Weldon, 
who  was  to  have  the  supervision  of  their  studies  and 
their  wardrobe. 

Elms-gate  House  was  a  large  stone  building,  which 
had  once  been  a  convent ;  and,  connected  with  it, 
many  a  sad  tradition  even  at  that  time  existed,  — 
of  punishments  inflicted  on  the  nuns,  their  being 
immured  in  a  dungeon,  &c.  The  truth  of  these  tales 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  63 

the  older  scholars  doubted  :  they  probably  originated 
in  the  brain  of  former  occupants.  At  any  rate,  Edith 
thought  it  a  bright,  cheerful  building,  fronting  a 
beautiful  garden,  the  fafade  covered  with  luxuriant 
growth  of  ivy,  eglantine,  and  honeysuckle,  which, 
when  the  casements  were  opened,  burst  into  the 
schoolroom,  and  spread  their  branches  over  the  re- 
cesses of  the  bay  windows.  The  first  were  passing 
away,  as  it  was  early  autumn;  but  the  honeysuckle 
still  bloomed,  and  the  eglantine  leaves  emitted  their 
delicious  odor. 

The  garden  was  yet  gay  with  the  marigold,  chry- 
santhemum, wallflower,  and  laurustinus,  many  of 
them  in  perfection,  as  the  moisture  of  the  climate 
tends  to  preserve  flowers  until  very  late  in  the  autumn. 

The  ivy  trained  its  dark -green  foliage  on  the  walls, 
which,  even  when  winter  approached,  wore  an  air 
of  springlike  beauty. 

The  interior  of  the  house  might  be  called  very 
pleasant ;  for  the  bi'ight  faces  of  many  of  the  scholars 
diffused  an  air  of  cheerfulness  over  all  things. 

To  Edith,  there  was  as  yet  but  little  cause  for  hap- 
piness. She  acknowledged  the  importance  of  being  at 
school ;  but  she  pined  for  the  society  of  Mr.  Courte- 
nay  and  her  mother,  the  domestic  comforts  of  her 
home  ;  and,  under  that  saddest  of  all  feelings,  home- 
sickness, she  became  so  dejected,  and  looked  so  pale, 
that  Mrs.  Lanmeer  told  her  she  must  send  word  to 
her  friends  how  unhappy  she  was,  and  request  them 
to  send  for  het.  This,  she  knew,  would  never  an- 


64  EDITH; 

swer :  it  would  disappoint  them  sadly.  And,  rousing 
herself  to  action,  she  pursued  her  studies  with  great 
energy,  was  diligent  at  her  drawing  and  music ;  and, 
fired  by  the  laudable  ambition  of  showing  at  Christ- 
mas how  much  she  had  improved,  she  found  the  best 
remedy  for  home-sickness  was  constant  employment, 
sought  companionship  with  pupils  older  than  herself, 
and  in  a  few  weeks  was  contented.  The  young  lady, 
Eliza  Sedley,  who  had  so  kindly  noticed  her  the 
morning  after  her  arrival,  became  her  warm  friend, 
her  guide  and  counsellor ;  and  the  bond  of  affection 
thus  formed  was  but  more  closely  cemented  by 
time. 

Little  Caroline  was  happy  as  a  lark ;  the  gayety  of 
her  disposition  made  her  a  general  favorite;  and, 
either  as  pet  or  playfellow,  she  was  sought  by  all  the 
younger  pupils. 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  65 


CHAPTER    XL 


"  The  better  days  of  life  were  ours; 

The  worst  can  be  but  mine : 
The  pun  that  cheers,  the  storm  that  lowers, 

Shall  never  more  be  thine. 
The  silence  of  that  dreamless  sleep, 
I  envy  now  too  much  to  weep ; 

Nor  need  I  to  repine 
That  all  those  charms  have  passed  away 
I  might  have  watched  through  long  decay."  —  BYRON. 


ONE  morning  after  school,  as  Edith  was  looking  for 
something  at  the  bottom  of  her  trunk,  she  discovered 
a  pocket-book,  which  she  did  not  remember  ever  to 
have  seen  before.  She  opened  it,  and  found  a  note 
from  Mrs.  Courtenay,  saying  it  contained  some  let- 
ters which  she  knew  Edith  would  value,  as  written 
by  her  father  soon  after  the  death  of  her  mother. 
These  letters  she  had  saved  until  she  thought  her 
old  enough  to  value  their  depth  of  feeling,  their  pro- 
found religious  ,sense.  Edith  was  alone,  and,  on 
opening  the  first  letter,  was  indeed  affected  by  its 
mournful  style :  — 

"  MY  DEAR  COURTENAT,  —  There  is  such  a  luxury  in  talking  or 
writing  to  one  who  I  know  feels  for  me  as  you  do,  that  I  hasten  to 
reply  to  your  letter  of  the  27th,  received  yesterday. 

6* 


66  EDITH; 

"  None  but  those  who  have  loved  like  me,  and  who  have  had 
their  happiness  blighted  by  the  breath  of  misfortune,  can  know 
how  mournfully  sweet  it  is  to  talk  of,  and  weep  for,  the  object  of 
our  departed  joys.  There  is  a  luxury  in  it  far  above  the  compre- 
hension of  ordinary  minds,  too  refined  for  any  but  dear  friends  to 
share.  What  is  the  world,  with  all  its  enticements,  to  me  ?  She 
who  gave  to  life  all  its  charms  lives  herself  no  longer  on  the  earth ! 
She  who  was  my  friend,  my  counsellor,  the  partner  of  my  joys  and 
sorrows,  she  who  pointed  the  way  to  happiness,  and  cheered  me 
on  my  road  of  life,  now  sleeps  the  sleep  of  death ! 

"  Can  it  be  wrong  for  me  to  mourn  for  her  ?  Can  I  be  blamed 
for  shedding  the  tear  of  bitter  regret,  when  I  think  of  my  poor 
motherless  child,  left  so  early  without  that  tender  guardian  who 
would  so  joyfully  have  watched  and  directed  her  expanding 
mind? 

"  I  may  perhaps  be  charged,  by  the  cold  and  heartless,  with 
carrying  my  regrets  to  a  culpable  excess ;  but  I  am  sure  you,  at 
least,  will  not  blame  me.  You  knew  my  wife,  and  can  estimate  the 
weight  of  my  loss ;  and  did  not  the  Saviour  weep  at  the  grave  of 
his  friend  Lazarus  ?  Ought  I  to  be  blamed  for  doing  that  which 
was  done  by  one  who  furnished  the  highest  example  the  universe 
ever  beheld  of  faith,  patience,  and  reignation  to  the  divine  will  ? 
Pity  me,  then,  my  friend,  but  do  not  condemn  me.  I  shall,  in 
time,  be  able  to  bear  up  in  a  more  manly  way.  My  child,  my 
friends,  have  claims  on  me  which  ought  not  to  be  disregarded. 
Faith,  too,  encourages  me  with  the  hope  I  shall  one  day  rejoin  my 
beloved  wife  in  the  mansions  of  the  blessed,  and  that  she  is  only 
gone  before  me,  inasmuch  as  she  was  worthy  first  to  be  partaker 
of  heavenly,  joys,  that  she  might  teach  me  how  to  bear,  with  Chris- 
tian resignation,  the  ills  of  life,  and  how,  when  called  upon  by 
our  Father,  to  relinquish,  without  a  murmur,  all  the  flattering 
prospects  of  this  world,  even  life  itself,  and  to  depart  full  of  joy 
and  peace  in  triumphant  faith." 

There  were  several  other  letters,  written  in  the 
same  style,  over  which  Edith's  tears  flowed  copiously. 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  67 

A  small  package  was  also  in  the  pocket-book,  in 
which  she  found  a  lock  of  dark  hair,  and  a  plain  gold 
ring.  The  words,  "  My  dear  wife's  hair,  and  her 
wedding-ring,  destined  for  my  little  Edith,"  gave  a 
sacredness  to  them  which  made  their  value  inestima- 
ble. She  placed  the  ring  on  her  finger,  determining 
never  to  remove  it,  unless  it  should  become,  in  after- 
years,  the  symbol  of  her  own  plighted  faith.  She 
closed  the  book  with  a  fervent  kiss,  went  to  her 
school  duties,  fortified,  she  thought,  to  bear  all  firmly 
that  might  await  her. 

There  are  trials  in  an  English  boarding-school 
hard  to  be  borne,  because  they  come  upon  young 
and  undisciplined  minds ;  there  are  pleasures  also, 
which  even  the  young  can  appreciate.  Among  the 
latter  were  the  delightful  walks  in  which  the  pupils 
of  Elms-gate  House  were  indulged.  They  often 
strayed,  accompanied  by  the  teachers,  through  groves 
and  fields  rich  with  autumn  flowers,  —  the  asters, 
golden-rod,  &c. ;  or  strolled  on  the  fertile  banks  of 
the  Medway,  whose  silvery  stream  wandered  through 
lovely  regions,  and  near  which  were  beautiful  villas 
belonging  to  the  rich  men  of  Kent.  At  other  times, 
the  walks  would  be  through  woody  lanes,  where  the 
woodbine  still  bloomed  with  the  autumn  harebell ; 
where,  from  a  little  spring  which  often  ran  bubbling 
under  a  hedge,  the  girls  would  delightedly  take  up 
the  water  in  their  hands,  and  revel  in  its  coolness. 
But  the  great  pleasure  was  to  go  into  the  wheat- 
fields,  help  the  gleaners  by  gathering  up  all  the 


68  EDITH  ; 

fallen  ears,  and  assist  in  filling  their  bundles,  which 
they  carried  home  on  their  heads,  — 

"  The  weight  on  the  head,  gay  joy  in  the  heart." 

Had  the  internal  discipline  been  of  a  gentler 
nature,  Edith  and  Caroline  might  have  been  happy ; 
but  the  rules,  which  were  read  every  Monday  morn- 
ing, were  very  rigid,  and,  like  the  laws  of  the  Medes 
and  Persians,  altered  not,  unless  the  circumstances 
were  of  an  unusual  character  which  demanded  indul- 
gence. The  constant  restraint  was  hard  to  endure ; 
and  there  seemed  a  strange  inconsistency  in  the  out- 
of-doors  enjoyment  and  the  stern  discipline  within. 

One  incident  will  be  sufficient  illustration  of  the 
severity  with  which  an  offence  was  followed.  The 
pupils  attended  divine  service  at  Rochester  Cathedral, 
and  of  course  were  expected  (and  very  properly)  to 
give  their  whole  attention  to  the  solemn  liturgy. 

One  Sunday,  when  the  bishop  was  in  the  most 
impressive  part  of  the  morning  prayers,  a  woman 
rushed  up  the  aisle,  and,  standing  before  the  reading- 
desk,  courtesied  in  mock  reverence,  saying,  in  loud 
tones,  "  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Minister  ?  "  She  was 
immediately  removed  from  the  church ;  but  of  course 
this  scene  made  a  sensation  through  the  assembly, 
particularly  in  the  gallery  where  the  East-gate  scho- 
lars sat.  Some  tittered ;  others,  covering  their  faces, 
moved  nervously  in  their  seats ;  but  poor  Caroline 
Courtenay  was  unable  to  control  her  merriment,  and 
laughed  outright. 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  69 

Edith  was  thunderstruck.  She  turned  towards 
the  teachers,  read  consternation  in  their  faces,  and 
well  foreboded  what  the  culprit  would  have  to  en- 
counter. She  became  painfully  uneasy.  To  laugh 
in  a  church  was  certainly  an  offence,  and  merited 
reproof;  to  laugh  in  a  cathedral,  in  the  presenqe 
of  a  right  reverend  bishop,  was  an  act  of  terrible 
irreverence. 

Not  a  word  was  said  when  the  pupils  went  home, 
nor  was  any  allusion  made  to  the  scene.  Edith 
hoped  the  affair  would  pass  off,  as  an  act  of  childish 
thoughtlessness.  But  not  so  :  the  storm  was  gather- 
ing, to  break  on  the  head  of  the  young  offender. 

Immediately  after  breakfast,  on  Monday  morning, 
the  head  teacher  called  Caroline  into  the  middle  of 
the  schoolroom,  saying, — 

"  Miss  Caroline  Courtenay,  are  you  aware  that 
you  did  a  very  wicked  thing  yesterday  when  you 
laughed  aloud  in  church  ?  Do  you  know  such 
an  act  is  called  irreverent  behavior  ?  " 

The  poor  child  turned  ghastly  pale  at  these  inqui- 
ries, shook  in  every  limb  with  alarm,  cast  an  implor- 
ing look  on  Edith  as  for  protection,  and  said,  in  a 
broken  voice,  to  the  teacher,  "  I  could  not  help  it : 
I  am  so  sorry  I  did  it !  " 

The  gentle  tones  of  her  voice,  half  choked  by 
fear,  the  genuine  contrition  in  her  pale  face,  told  how 
deeply  she  felt.  They  availed  her  not.  The  teacher 
said,  "Your  punishment  is  to  wear  a  badge,  of  dis- 
grace on  your  forehead  all  day,  inscribed  with  the 


70  EDITH  ; 

words,  <  Irreverent  behavior.'  Come  forward  to 
me.  You  are  also  to  stand,  through  the  hours  of 
school,  in  the  middle  of  the  room ;  your  food  to  be 
bread  and  water,  which  you  are  to  eat  alone  at  a  side- 
table.  You  may  sit  during  the  play -hours,  —  at  no 
other  time." 

The  sentence  was  no  sooner  pronounced  than 
Edith  darted  from  her  seat ;  and,  clasping  one  arm 
round  the  poor  culprit,  she  laid  the  other  across  her 
brow,  as  if  to  shield  her  from  the  impending  disgrace. 
"  Hush,  Carrie  dear  !  "  she  whispered.  "  I  remember 
my  promise  to  your  papa :  I  will  protect  you." 
She  turned  a  look  of  haughty  defiance  on  all  around, 
her  dark  eyes  flashing  unearthly  light.  Her  comb 
having  fallen,  her  black  curls  floated  over  her  beau- 
tifully formed  throat  and  shoulders,  giving  her  the 
air  of  a  young  Pythia. 

The  governess  was  sent  for,  Edith  charged  with 
rebellion.  She  was  publicly  reproved ;  but  a  low 
murmur  ran  through  the  school,  as  if  in  approval  of 
her  conduct.  But  the  powers  were  too  strong  for  a 
girl  to  contend  with  :  she  was  sternly  ordered  to  her 
seat,  but  not  until  she  had  given  utterance  to  a 
brief  speech :  "  That  child's  noble  father,  her  high- 
minded  mother,  —  how  would  they  feel  to  know  what 
is  going  on  here  !  The  whole  world  would  say  her 
punishment  is  too  severe."  "  Silence  !  "  sounded 
from  Mrs.  Lanmeer,  "  silence  !  or  you  shall  be  dis- 
missed from  the  school."  The  badge  was  bound  on 
the  child's  forehead  :  her  passive  submission  was 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  71 

indeed  a  contrast  to  Edith's  wild  outbreak,  and 
would  have  moved  to  pity  any  other  than  tyrants. 
She  stood  with  her  head  bowed,  the  light  from  her 
clear  eyes  almost  extinguished  by  the  large  drops 
which  filled  them. 

The  meals  for  that  day  were  untouched  by  Edith ; 
her  power  of  swallowing  was  gone.  This  child,  con- 
fided to  her  care,  sent  to  school  as  much  perhaps  to 
be  her  companion  as  to  learn,  was  disgraced  in  the 
presence  of  the  whole  school.  She  was  made  ill  and 
miserable.  She  knew  the  scholars  sympathized  with 
her,  exulted  in  her  daring  to  speak ;  she  could  read 
it  in  their  kind  looks. 

The  young  martyr  bore  her  punishment  quietly 
and  meekly  through  the  day :  but  nature  had  been 
tried  to  its  utmost ;  and,  when  the  bell  rang  for 
prayers,  and  the  badge  was  removed,  she  fell  in  a 
swoon  at  the  teacher's  feet. 

"  She   is  dead ! "   shrieked  Edith.     The  murmur 
through  the  schoolroom  was  like  the  sound  of  distant 
waves :  all  were  shocked  beyond  the  power  of  con- 
trol.     Edith   caught    the   child  in   her    arms,  bore 
her  to  a  seat.     The   scholars  ran   for  water,  which 
was    sprinkled    over    her    face   and  rubbed  on   her 
hands ;    and,  in  a  few  minutes,  animation  returned. 
She  opened  her  eyes,  and  said,  "Where  is  sister?" 
"  I  am  here,  dearest :  are  you  better  ?  " 
"  Oh,  yes  !  thank  you  ;  but  is  the  badge  off? " 
"  Think   no    more    of   that,   Carrie ;    the   day  is 
over." 


72  EDITH; 

The  pupils  crowded  round  her,  kissed  her  hands 
and  pale  cheeks :  though  they  dared  not  utter  words 
of  condolence,  they  evinced,  by  every  means  they 
could  exhibit,  how  deeply  incensed  they  were  by  the 
day's  proceedings. 

What  passed  among  the  governess  and  teachers 
never  transpired.  No  punishment  was  inflicted  on 
Edith  ;  her  "  rebellion  "  was  overlooked  :  but,  from 
that  hour,  her  position  in  the  school  was  one  that 
few  girls  of  her  age  ever  attain ;  for  there  was  in  her 
words  and  actions"  a  power  which  all  around  her 
clearly  saw  and  tacitly  acknowledged. 


OK,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  73 


CHAPTER    XII. 


1  Do  you  remember  all  the  sunny  places, 

Where,  in  bright  days  long  past,  we  played  together? 
Do  you  remember  all  the  dear  home  faces 

That  gathered  round  the  hearth  in  wintry  weather? 
Do  you  remember  all  the  happy  meetings, 
Kind  looks,  kind  hearts,  kind  words,  and  tender  greetings? 
Do  you  remember  them?  " 


PEACE  between  England  and  the  United  States  had 
been  established  for  some  time ;  but  a  little  of  the 
war-spirit  yet  remained,  and  even  spread  itself  into 
schools.  It  was  frequently  amusing  to  hear  children 
echoing  the  sentiments  of  their  parents,  and  disputing 
about  conquest  and  defeat. 

On  one  occasion,  Caroline  came  running  to  Edith, 
looking  very  angry,  with  the  entreaty,  "Do  come 
and  talk  to  these  girls :  they  are  calling  papa  a 
Yankee,  and  telling  stories  -about  his  country." 

"Well,  well,"  said  Edith,  "I  will  fight  your 
battles,  Carrie.  What  is  the  matter,  young  la- 
dies ? " 

"  Oh !  Caroline  is  so  cross,  because  we  say  the 
English  marched  to  Washington,  set  fire  to  the  Capi- 
tol, the  President's  house  too.  She  says  it  is  not 

7 


74  EDITH; 

true ;  she  denies  also  that  the  Yankees  were  beaten 
in  Canada." 

Edith  looked  at  the  young  politicians  with  a  smile  ; 
then  said,  very  calmly,  "  I  am  as  truly  English  as 
any  of  you  ;  I  love  my  country  equally  well,  but 
not  at  the  expense  of  justice.  The  war  on  the  land 
was,  in  many  cases,  disastrous  to  the  Americans  ; 
but  did  you  never  hear  of  such  names  as  Hull,  Deca- 
tur,  Bainbridge,  Blakely,  Perry,  Stewart,  and  Law- 
rence, —  any  or  all  of  them  ?  When  you  boast,  you 
should  tell  the  whole  story,  girls,  and  do  justice  to 
the  Yankees,  as  you  call  them,  —  a  nation  of  brave 
men." 

"  Pray,  where  did  you  learn  so  much  about  this 
war,  and  the  officers  engaged  in  it  ?  "  inquired  a  pert 
girl. 

"From  my  adopted  father,  Mr.  Courtenay,  who 
is  an  American,  who  has  related  all  the  events  to  me, 
and  whose  feelings  suffered  much  during  the  dis- 
putes between  the  two  countries.  From  him  I 
learned  all  I  know :  he  also  taught  me  to  be  just  to 
both  nations.  My  advice  to  you  is  to  be  so  too ; 
for  both  deserve  your  respect." 

The  political  discussions  were  not  resumed  after 
this  explanation.  The  disputants  easily  saw  that 
Edith  did  not  speak  ignorantly ;  and  the  memory  of 
her  father,  her  gallant  father,  came  vividly  before 
her,  lending  animation  to  her  manner,  and  giving 
eloquence  to  her  speech. 

The  Christmas  holidays  now  approached.     Trials 


OB,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  75 

were  endured  with  comparative  cheerfulness ;  for  a 
bright  future  was  before  all  at  East  Gate,  —  a  re-union 
with  friends,  a  restoration  to  home  comforts.  Les- 
sons were  less  strictly  marked ;  games  were  allowed 
in  the  evenings,  when  the  studies  for  the  next  day 
were  finished;  pleasures,  freedom,  were  increased. 
But  the  system  of  an  English  boarding-school,  at 
that  period,  was  wrong  in  the  abstract,  unsound  in 
principle,  and  of  course  erroneous  in  practice. 
Teachers  ought  to  stand  in  the  place  of  parents  ;  the 
voice  of  admonition  ought  to  be  gentle,  the  heart 
taught  to  love  duty ;  no  pupil  should  shrink  from 
the  eye  of  the  instructor  ;  all  ought  to  be  confidence, 
trust,  and  harmony,  where  religion  should  be  the 
great  basis  of  good  conduct.  To  win  the  affections 
should  be  the  grand  stimulus  in  teaching.  Let  the 
pupil  only  love  the  teacher,  and  learning  is  a  plea- 
sure ;  to  do  rightly,  an.  easy  task :  for  what  young 
person  can  act  ingenuously,  when  an  eye  of  scrutiny 
is  ever  upon  him  or  her  ?  Is  not  such  continual 
watchfulness  one  cause  of  frequent  deception  ? 

Several  letters  had  passed  between  Mary  Leslie 
and  Edith.  The  simplicity  and  openness  of  the  latter 
were  checked  by  the  fact,  that  every  communication 
was  read  by  a  teacher.  She  dared  not  even  send  a 
message  to  Arthur ;  but  she  was  glad  to  hear  of  his 
progress  at  Eton,  his  preparation  for  Cambridge,  and 
determined,  when  she  met  him,  she  would  tell  him 
how  she  had  longed  to  see  him,  dear  Glendale,  and 
all  its  loved  friends.  How  stiff  her  letters  seemed  ! 


76  EDITH; 

so  painfully  correct,  so  heartlessly  neat,  she  hated 
almost  to  send  them. 

The  day  at  length  arrived  for  going  home.  There 
were  some  sad  partings  with  young  ladies  who  had 
finished  their  school  education,  and  would  not  return  ; 
there  were  tears,  kisses,  smiles,  and  cordial  shaking 
of  hands. 

Caroline  jumped  into  the  carriage  ;  Edith  said  her 
last  words :  they  called  for  Edward,  and  were  soon 
whirling  homewards. 

Such  joy  when  they  saw  Milton  Church,  the  old 
structure  so  dear ;  it  was  only  half  a  mile  from  home  ! 
Such  sparkling  eyes,  flushed  cheeks,  and  clapping  of 
hands,  when  home  was  in  sight!  The  carriage 
stopped :  then  came  the  wild  outbreak  of  joy,  such 
as  an  English  schoolgirl  alone  knows ;  the  greeting 
with  parents,  little  Marion,  Jenny  and  the  other 
domestics ;  and  then  a  run  for  the  garden,  despoiled 
as  it  was  of  all  but  its  evergreens,  yet  still  a  place  of 
enchantment ;  for  there  stood  the  summer-house,  the 
almond-tree,  and  remains  of  late  flowers,  which  often 
linger  until  Christmas.  Tilbury  Fort,  too,  looked 
so  regally,  with  its  proud  towers  and  waving  flags ! 
Every  familiar  object  seemed  to  have  acquired  a 
value  never  before  possessed ;  a  value  not  its  own, 
but  produced  by  association. 

Grandmamma  Harcourt  and  Margaret  were  among 
the  first  visitors  to  greet  the  two  girls,  and,  on 
Twelfth  Night,' gave  them  a  party,  such  as  English 
children  always  enjoy  so  highly.  The  choosing  of 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  77 

king  and  queen  causes  so  much  emotion ;  the  cutting 
the  plum-cake,  crowning  the  queen,  &c.,  all  so  excit- 
ing. Arthur  Leslie  was  one  of  the  company  on  this 
occasion ;  was  elected  king,  and  Margaret  Granville 
his  royal  consort.  He  performed  the  ceremony  of 
crowning  her  very  gracefully,  and,  to  Edith,  never 
appeared  so  well.  There  was  a  union  of  dignity,  and 
condescension  of  manner,  which  led  him  to  accom- 
modate himself  to  those  who  w.ere  so  much  younger. 
He  did  it  in  a  way  emphatically  his  own :  he  placed 
the  wreath  on  the  queen's  head  with  the  gallantry  of 
a  knight  of  old ;  and  as  she  sat  on  a  raised  seat, 
surrounded  by  her  subjects,  the  scene  was  quite  an 
interesting  one.  Though  Arthur  was  Icing  of  the 
evening's  entertainment,  there  was  a  subject  not  over- 
looked. Edith  was  still  the  preferred  one ;  and  he 
contrived,  just  before  the  leave-taking,  to  place  in 
her  dark  hair  a  lovely  white  flower.  Had  not  the 
bustle  of  preparation  for  departure  occupied  the 
attention  of  the  young  people,  a  blush  might  have 
betrayed  Edith's  pleasure  at  this  bestowment. 

Every  thing  had  been  done  for  the  happiness  of  the 
two  girls  by  their  parents  and  friends.  But  festivi- 
ties must  cease.  Christmas  departed,  and  with  it  the 
holidays.  "  The  best  friends  must  part ;  education 
before  pleasure,  Miss  Edith,"  was  Jenny's  sagacious 
remark,  as  she  packed  the  trunks  once  more.  Edith 
and  Caroline  returned  to  Rochester  rather  heavy- 
hearted,  as  there  was  a  prospect  of  Mr.  Courtenay 
being  obliged  to  go  to  the  United  States  on  business  ; 

7* 


78  EDITH; 

but  the  school  discipline  was  not  so  much  dreaded 
as  formerly.  They  expected  to  meet  many  of  their 
young  friends ;  were  ambitious  of  advancement  in 
their  classes ;  and,  above  all,  Edith's  sense  of  inte- 
grity rejoiced  to  remember  that  no  temptation  had 
lured  her  into  a  relation  of  tyranny  exercised  over 
either.  The  affair  of  the  church  had  not  been 
named;  and  she  could  unblushingly  look  teachers 
and  pupils  in  the  face,  knowing  her  former  griefs 
were  locked  in  her  own  heart :  not  a  tale  had  been 
told. 

Many  of  the  pupils  had  returned ;  the  teachers 
were  at  their  posts ;  and  the  school  commenced  with 
its  course  of  thorough  instruction. 

Edith's  first  lesson  given  by  the  governess  was  to 
commit  Goldsmith's  "  Deserted  Village "  to  me- 
mory. Three  months  were  allowed,  this  being  an 
exercise  in  addition  to  all  others. 

She  was  delighted  at  the  selection,  as  it  was  her 
favorite  poem,  and  the  study,  of  it  would  be  real 
enjoyment.  So  much  of  it  was  so  like  Glendale,  and 
so  associated  with  the  Leslies,  she  seemed  to  revel 
in  the  sweet  scenes  so  beautifully  portrayed.  With 
what  sympathetic  tenderness  she  paused  on  the  pas- 
sages descriptive  of  the  removal  of  the  villagers !  — 


"  Good  Heaven !  what  sorrow  gloomed  that  parting  day 
Which  called  them  from,  their  native  walks  away, 
When  the  poor  exiles,  every  pleasure  past, 
Hung  round  their  howers,  and  fondly  looked  their  last, 
And  took  a  long  farewell,  and  wished  in  vain 
For  seats  like  these  beyond  the  Western  main  !  " 


OR,    THE    LIGHT   OF    HOME.  79 

Though  hardly  old  enough  to  fully  appreciate  the 
treasures  of  Goldsmith's  mind,  Edith's  love  of  coun- 
try scenes  was  strengthened  by  every  line.  She 
repeated  the  poem  at  the  time  appointed,  with  the 
beautiful  and  varied  intonation  necessary  for  the  full 
effect,  and  received  all  the  commendation  she  desired. 
But  there  still  were  trials.  The  rules  of  the  school 
required  great  neatness  and  order  in  every  pupil, 
punishment  and  mortification  often  following  acts 
of  carelessness.  One  morning,  Edith  missed  her 
French  Dictionary,  and,  learning  from  one  of  the 
scholars  it  was  in  the  "  culprit's  basket,"  was  in 
hourly  expectation  of  her  sentence. 

In  a  few  evenings  there  was  to  be  what  was  called 
a  "  public,"  when  the  young  ladies  danced  before 
the  parents.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Courtenay  were  to  be 
present  on  this  occasion.  It  would  be  just  before 
Mr.  Courtenay  sailed. 

This  dictionary  was  an  incubus  to  poor  Edith ;  it 
oppressed  her  by  night  and  day.  Miss  Sedley,  with 
great  tenderness,  urged  her  to  keep  perfectly  quiet. 
Perhaps  it  would  never  be  noticed ;  it  might  be  a 
mistake,  it  having  been  seen.  She  hoped  for  the 
best :  but  on  the  day  before  the  "  public,"  while  pre- 
paring for  dinner,  she  was  summoned  to  the  school- 
room, as  the  messenger  said,  "  to  receive  her  doom  ; 
for  the  fatal  basket  was  before  Miss  A." 

"  I  shall  die  with  shame,"  Edith  exclaimed,  "  if  I 
am  to  be  mortified  to-morrow  evening  in  the  pre- 


80  EDITH; 

sence  of  so  many  people !  and  my  dear  mamma  and 
Mr.  Courtenay  too  !  " 

"  Keep  up  your  courage,"  said  one  of  the  girls. 
"  What  disgrace  is  there  in  forgetting  to  put  a  book 
in  its  place  ?  " 

"  This  tyranny  is  insupportable,"  said  another. 

Edith  obeyed  the  summons,  —  entered  the  school- 
room with  a  pale  cheek,  but  very  determined  spirit. 
She  called  all  her  strength  of  mind  to  her  aid  as  she 
said,  "  Did  you  send  for  me,  madam  ?  " 

"  I  did,"  replied  Miss  A.  "  This  is  your  book  : 
what  is  the  usual  punishment  for  carelessness  ?  " 

"  Not  such  as  I  hope  you  would  inflict  on  a  young 
lady  of  my  age,  —  to  suspend  a  book  round  her 
neck  !  It  would  be  more,  madam,  than  I  think  I 
deserve  ;  though  I  am  very  ready  to  own  I  ought  to 
have  been  more  careful.  For  my  mamma's  sake,  I 
ask  forgiveness,  not  for  my  own." 

Whether  Miss  A.  was  struck  by  Edith's  ingenu- 
ous confession,  or  her  independence,  was  not  known  ; 
but  she  was  forgiven,  as  were  all  the  other  offenders, 
one  of  whom  remarked,  "  It  must  be  the  fearless- 
ness and  candor  of  Edith  Dacres  which  have  softened 
the  heart  of  our  Brutus.  She  has  accomplished 
more  than  any  other  pupil :  even  the  laws,  once 
called  Persian  and  Median,  yield  to  her." 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Courtenay  were  at  the  "  public," 
which  came  off  with  great  eclat.  Mr.  Courtenay 
took  leave  of  the  two  girls  with  much  emotion.  He 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  81 

tried  to  cheer  them  by  hopes  of  a  re-union  in  the 
summer,  little  dreaming  they  were  not  to  meet  for  a 
long,  long  time. 

Eliza  Sedley  continued  her  affectionate  attentions 
te- Edith  in  every  way,  assisted  her  when  perplexed 
in  her  lessons,  exhorted  her  to  perseverance,  and 
stimulated  her  efforts,  not  for  the  applause  of  those 
around  her,  but  the  approbation  of  her  own  heart 
and  conscience.  Admonitions  from  this  friend,  so 
mildly  given,  sank  deep  into  her  memory.  The 
gentle,  silver-toned  voice,  which  had  music  in  every 
sound;  the  bright-blue  eye,  which  never  beamed. on 
her  but  in  kindness,  —  would  have  found  Edith  un- 
grateful indeed,  had  not  the  remembrance  of  Eliza's 
valuable  qualities  proved  a  wellspring  in  her  soul, 
from  which,  as  from  a  fountain  of  living  water,  issued 
many  a  lofty  purpose,  many  a  noble  action. 


82  EDITH 


CHAPTER    XIII. 


"  We  do  pray  for  mercy ; 

And  that  same  prayer  doth  teach  us  all  to  render 
The  deeds  of  mercy." 


ONE  morning,  when  the  roll  was  called,  a  voice 
from  near  Miss  Sedley's  vacant  seat  uttered  the  word 
"  absent."  Edith  started  in  alarm.  Her  place  was 
indeed  vacated.  Mysterious  whispers  were  among 
the  scholars,  strange  looks,  hushed  inquiries.  She 
asked  what  was  the  matter.  "  Where  is  Eliza  ?  " 
A  reply  from  Miss  Gunning  was,  "  You  will  proba- 
bly see  her  soon.  She  will  be  altered,  —  probably 
very  sad ;  but  wait  until  her  return.  Ask  no  further 
questions,  if  you  love  her.  It  would  be  painful  to 
her  to  know  you  were  uneasy  ;  and  no  one  can  give 
you  any  information."  Of  course,  nothing  more 
was  said.  In  a  few  days,  Eliza  returned,  altered 
indeed,  —  so  pale  and  dejected  as  if  a  deep  sorrow 
'had  fallen  upon  her.  She  spoke  kindly  as  ever  to 
Edith,  but  made  no  allusion  to  her  recent  absence 
or  its  cause. 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  83 

Several  days  passed,  when,  one  morning  in  the 
playground,  she  approached  her  young  friend,  and, 
taking  her  arm  within  hers,  said,  "  Edith,  I  have 
noticed  your  strict  regard  to  my  wishes,  —  your  for- 
bearance as  it  respects  my  sorrow.  Deep  indeed 
is  the  affliction  in  which  I  am  involved.  I  have 
lost  my  only  brother  :  he  has  fallen  by  his  own 
hand ! " 

Edith  looked  timidly  in  her  friend's  face.  She 
could  not  speak ;  for  sympathy  with  the  afflicted  girl 
choked  her  utterance.  Miss  Sedley  then  went  on  to 
say,  this  brother,  of  whom  her  father  had  always 
been  extravagantly  fond,  had  been  a  wayward  boy, 
though  possessing  some  very  fine  qualities.  He  was 
in  the  army ;  had  lately  been  quartered  in  a  coun- 
try town,  where  he  had  privately  married  a  girl  of 
great  personal  attractions,  but  infinitely  his  inferior 
in  birth.  But  poorly  educated,  and  in  no  way  suita- 
ble for  his  wife,  his  father  —  a  man  of  violent  pas- 
sions, whose  pride  was  wounded,  his  hopes  blighted, 
by  this  misalliance  —  had  rashly  said  he  never  would 
forgive  him. 

The  young  soldier  had  obtained  leave  of  absence 
for  a  short  time,  and,  it  was  presumed,  intended  to 
visit  his  sister,  to  solicit  her  intercession  with  his 
father.  He  had  arrived  with  his  wife  in  Rochester. 
Eliza  saw  them  in  the  evening,  and  promised  to  use 
all  her  persuasive  powers  to  reconcile  their  father  ; 
though,  knowing  ,his  inexorable  temper,  she  felt 
but  faint  hopes  of  success.  The  next  morning,  a 


84  EDITH; 

knock  was  heard  at  Lieut.  Sedley's  door.  He  asked, 
"  Who  is  there  ?  " 

A  voice  replied,  "  I  want  your  boots,  sir." 

"  Good  Heavens ! "  he  exclaimed,  "  it  is  my  fa- 
ther ! "  He  sprang  from  his  bed,  seized  a  travel- 
ling pistol  which  was  on  the  mantel-piece,  and  in  a 
moment  shot  himself  through  the  heart.  The  door 
was  forced  open ;  and  there  lay  the  young  wife  sense- 
less on  the  floor,  her  husband  dead  by  her  side ! 
The  scene  was  not  to  be  described ;  the  agony  of  the 
father,  the  anguish  of  the  wife  when  her  senses 
were  restored,  can  only  be  imagined. 

It  appeared  that  the  elder  Mr.  Sedley  had  disco- 
vered his  son's  absence  from  his  quarters,  and,  pre- 
suming he  would  visit  his  sister,  had  therefore 
started  for  Rochester,  where  he  learned  his  arrival 
at  the  hotel.  Determined  upon  seeing  him  unex- 
pectedly, he  had  practised  the  deception  of  pretend- 
ing to  be  a  servant,  and  brought  on  this  cata- 
strophe. 

Eliza  said,  when  she  had  thus  far  proceeded  in  her 
narrative,  "  I  am,  you  may  easily  see,  very  painfully 
situated.  My  father  has  always  been  affectionate  to 
me,  and  I  have  yielded  to  him  my  respect  and  duty : 
but  I  cannot  approve  his  deception ;  nor  dare  I  pal- 
liate my  brother's  offence,  in  rushing  so  impetuously 
into  the  presence  of  his  God,  so  selfishly  leaving  a 
young  wife  —  hardly  eighteen  —  unprotected,  and 
almost  alone.  He  violated  his  duty  to  his  father  by 
his  imprudent  marriage ;  and  yet  how  well  I  loved 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  85 

• 

him,  headstrong  as  he  was  !  I  should  not  have  re- 
lated this  sad  story  to  you,  Edith ;  but  I  have  noticed 
you  are  very  mature  for  your  years,  thoughtful 
and  sympathizing.  I  know,  also,  you  would  hear 
exaggerated  statements  from  those  who  have  no" 
mercy  for  the  erring  ;  and  the  affair  has  become  pub- 
lic. My  brother  is  buried  :  his  wife  has  returned 
to  her  friends,  some  one  of  whom  came  for  her  im- 
mediately upon  the  news  reaching  her  former  home. 
My  father  has  gone  to  Scotland  for  some  time.  I 
shall  remain  here  during  his  absence. 

Edith's  warm-hearted  nature  sympathized  in  the 
affliction  of  her  friend :  she  was  more  than  ever  de- 
voted to  her,  and  the  friendship  commenced  at  school 
never  ceased.  It  was  her  greatest  pleasure  to  be 
guided  by  Miss  Sedley,  —  to  seek  companionship  with 
her  in  their  walks,  in  the  playground,  or  wherever 
she  had  the  power  to  be  with  her.  There  seemed  to 
be  a  hallowed  tone  over  this  intercourse,  rather  un- 
usual in  two  beings  so  young  and  so  very  unlike. 
But  Eliza's  mildness  often  restrained  the  impetuosity 
of  Edith ;  and,  when  the  former  at  times  saw  the 
flash  from  the  eyes  of  her  friend  when  another  had 
been  wronged,  she  would  playfully  place  her  hand 
over  her  face,  and  say,  "  Your  dark  hair  and  bright 
eyes  look  very  much  like  a  thunder-storm.  I  wish, 
Edith,  you  would  practise  the  mental  discipline  of 
which  I  know  you  capable,  and  try  to  check  this 
impetuosity.  The  time  may  come  to  you,  as  it  has 
to  me,  when  you  will  be  obliged  to  forbear,  even 

8 


86  EDITH; 

when  you  see  another  injured.    Would  not  a  gentler 
manner  be  quite  as  likely  to  aid  the  cause  ?  " 

"  How  I  wish  I  were  more  like  you,  dear  Eliza ! 
But  the  power  is  still  mine  to  benefit  by  your  ex- 
ample, and  it  shall  not  be  lost  on  me.  There  is 
much  work  to  be  done,  but,  I  hope,  nothing  beyond 
my  capability  to  accomplish." 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  87 


CHAPTER    XIV. 


"  Time  cannot  heal  our  hopelessness,  nor  gather 
The  fragments  of  the  vase  in  which  were  placed 
The  treasures  of  our  hearts,  but  which,  defaced, 

Is  dashed  to  earth  and  broken.    No,  no :  rather 
Time  deepens  all  the  lines  which  sorrow  traced. 
Is  there  no  refuge,  then?    Yes,  soul  abased  ! 

Pray  thee  in  humbleness  to  thy  great  Father." 


THE  spring  had  arrived,  with  its  flowers  and  verdure ; 
again  the  violets  bloomed,  the  primroses,  the  cow- 
slips ;  the  walks  in  the  country  were  resumed,  which 
seemed  to  shed  such  happiness  over  the  scholars  at 
Elms  Gate.  There  were  many  lovely  spots  near  Ro- 
chester easily  reached,  some  very  picturesque,  with 
pretty  footpaths  to  neat  cottages  ;  .then  an  old  hall, 
with  its  vine-clad  walls,  and  gateway  covered  with 
ivy ;  the  little  woods  near ;  an  old  orchard,  &c.,  — 
scenery  which  realizes  all  the  dreams  of  romance, 
and  which  the  young  enjoy  so^ontKusiastically. 

The  wild  laburnum  ancT  hawthorn  hedges  were  in 
bloom :  in  fact,  the  surrounding  country  was  a  para- 
dise. The  pupils  this  season  were  allowed  to  roam 
—  within  sight  of  the  teachers  : —  through  leafy 
glades,  about  the  fields,  or  on  the  margin  of  the 


88  EDITH; 

river,  generally  having  a  rendezvous  at  no  great  dis- 
tance, where  they  assembled  to  place  themselves  in 
their  ranks. 

The  details  of  school-days  may  now  begin  to 
weary  the  reader ;  and  it  may  be  well  to  draw  them 
to  a  close,  or  rather  to  relate  only  such  incidents  as 
may  have  some  slight  claim  to  interest. 

Among  the  pupils  was  a  bright,  blooming  girl  of 
seventeen,  full  of  life,  animation,  and  good  humor, 
—  a  general  favorite,  even  with  her  wild,  daring,  and 
often  defiant  opposition  to  the  rules  of  the  school. 
She  appeared  at  times  as  if  utterly  reckless  of  the 
advice  or  guidance  of  the  teachers.  She  had  been 
threatened  with  expulsion,  as  wholly  unmanageable, 
when  her  better  nature  would  prevail,  and  for  weeks 
she  would  be  gentle,  docile,  and  obedient  as  possi- 
ble, —  "  winning,  bewitching,  reigning  o'er  all  hearts, 
a  fairy  queen,"  —  until  some  temptation  to  rebel 
offered,  and  she  would  again  bring  herself  into 
disgrace.  So  warm-hearted  was  Fanny  Gordon,  so 
affectionate,  and  prompt  to  oblige,  that  the  scholars 
usually  took  her  part.  The  younger  girls  always 
sought  her  in  difficult  lessons,  puzzling  sums,  or 
when  contriving  a  way  to  evade  an  expected  punish- 
ment ;  for,  with  characteristic  disinterestedness,  she 
would  at  any  time  hazard  herself  to  screen  another. 
For  some  days,  Fanny  had  appeared  very  thoughtful : 
her  cheerfulness  had  almost  forsaken  her.  She  had 
lately  returned  from  a  brief  visit  at  the  house  of  one 
of  her  relatives  ;  and,  as  her  mother  was  a  great  in- 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  89 

valid,  it  was  presumed  she  was  anxious  about  her, 
as  she  was  probably  more  ill.  "When  any  one  in- 
quired why  she  was  so  serious,  she  treated  the  ques- 
tion lightly,  and  tried  to  conceal  her  disquietude. 

Things  were  in  this  state,  when,  one  evening,  a 
rustling  sound  was  heard  in  the  recess,  where  Fanny 
was  kneeling  in  prayer-time,  and  into  which  a  case- 
ment opened.  When  the  evening  service  was  over, 
one  of  the  teachers,  directing  her  eyes  to  Fanny,  in- 
quired its  cause.  She  hastily  replied,  "  It  was  some 
of  the  wild  roses,  which  caught  in  my  frock."  This 
answer  was  not  satisfactory.  She  was  called  before 
Mrs.  Lanmeer,  when  a  letter  was  found  in  her  cor- 
sage, tied  to  a  silken  cord.  The  contents,  of  course, 
were  never  made  public  ;  but  the  scholars,  with  a 
mysterious  air,  whispered,  "  It  must  have  been  from 
a  gentleman !  "  —  a  dreadful  offence.  It  was  after- 
wards ascertained  she  had  carried  on  a  correspond- 
ence in  this  way. 

Fanny  never  had  an  opportunity  to  offer  any  peti- 
tions heavenward,  or  draw  any /missives  from  the 
earth,  in  that  recess  again.  Not  even  to  her  most 
intimate  friends  in  the  school  did  she  ever  lisp  a 
syllable  connected  with  this  disgraceful  affair  ;  for 
doubtless  it  was  one,  as  the  result  will  show.  A 
fortnight  had  elapsed,  and  the  memory  of  the  letter 
was  passing  away.  Very  little  had  been  said  about  it, 
and  the  business  of  the  school  had  gone  on  as  usual, 
when  one  morning,  when  the  roll  was  called,  Fanny 
Gordon  was  missing.  The  young  lady  who  shared 

8» 


90  EDITH; 

her  bed  said  "  she  had  arisen  very  early  to  study  a 
difficult  lesson,  and  gone  into  the  schoolroom  for 
that  purpose."  The  rooms  were  all  searched,  the 
grounds,  summer-house,  &c.  ;  but  she  was  nowhere 
to  be  found.  No  doubt  existed  of  her  having 
eloped.  The  consternation  was  general,  all  were  so 
shocked  and  alarmed ;  for  it  is  simple  justice  to 
say,  the  morals  of  the  pupils  were  as  carefully 
guarded  as  if  the  teachers  had  had  the  Palladium  in 
the  sanctuary  of  the  house.  No  deviation  from  the 
most  refined  delicacy  was  ever  overlooked  ;  and  such 
a  violation  of  female  propriety  as  this  was  over- 
whelming to  all  who  held  offices  of  guardianship  in 
the  establishment.  The  mystery  was,  how  had  she 
effected  her  escape,  when  there  seemed  to  be  eyes  all 
over  the  house  ?  It  was  supposed  one  of  the  cham- 
bermaids aided  her. 

Fanny's  father  was  immediately  summoned.  What 
passed  in  the  interview  with  him  and  Mrs.  Lanmeer 
remained  a  profound  secret.  Her  clothes,  books, 
&c.,  were  sent  away ;  her  seat  occupied  by  another. 
Her  radiant  face  was  never  seen  again  within  those 
walls,  her  name  never  heard ;  to  mention  it  was  con- 
sidered an  offence.  But  she  was  not  forgotten :  her 
active  kindness,  unfailing  good-humor,  and  self-sacri- 
ficing nature,  had  endeared  her  to  the  larger  part 
of  her  companions,  who  would  often  in  silence  ex- 
hibit to  each  other  the  little  presents  she  had  made 
them  y  and,  if  they  dared  not  speak  her  name,  they 
cherished  her  memory  with  deep  regret  for  her  mis- 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  91 

conduct.  Probably,  had  her  wayward  disposition 
been  earlier  trained  by  religious  instruction,  had  her 
mind  been  disciplined  to  obedience  at  home,  she 
might  have  proved  an  ornament  to  society ;  for  she 
possessed  the  elements  of  a  noble  character.  She 
had  never  been  taught,  until  her  residence  at  Elms 
Gate,  to  exercise  any  judgment,  control  any  impulse, 
or  check  any  wish.  She  had  been  the  spoiled  child 
of  rich  parents. 

A  veil  was  now  to  be  thrown  over  all  her  bright- 
ness, —  her  very  name  considered  a  reproach.  Poor 
Fanny ! 


EDITH; 


CHAPTER     XV. 


"  Farewell !  but,  whenever  you  welcome  the  hour 
Which  awakens  the  night-song  of  mirth  in  your  bower, 
Oh,  think  of  the  friend  who  once  welcomed  it  too, 
And  forgot  his  own  griefs  to  be  happy  with  you ! 
His  griefs  may  return ;  not  a  hope  may  remain 
Of  the  few  that  have  brightened  his  pathway  of  pain  : 
But  he  ne'er  shall  forget  tbe  sweet  vision  that  threw 
Its  enchantment  around  him  while  lingering  with  you." 


AFTER  the  event  which  concluded  the  last  chapter, 
and  as  the  autumn  was  approaching,  Eliza  Sedley  was 
to  leave  school.  Edith  felt  as  if  her  happiness  was 
to  depart  with  her.  Their  attachment  had  been 
strengthened  by  time ;  no  inharmonious  word  had 
ever  passed  between  them ;  but  a  spirit  so  beautiful 
had  pervaded  their  intercourse,  that  the  girls  often 
called  them  Hermia  and  Helena,  with  "  two  seeming 
bodies  and  one  heart."  Edith  felt  she  should  be 
almost  alone ;  for  so  entirely  had  her  affection  been 
given  to  Eliza,  she  had  cultivated  but  slight  inter- 
course with  the  other  scholars  beyond  what  courtesy 
demanded. 

Miss  Sedley's  health,  since  the  melancholy  death 
of  her  brother,  had  been  very  delicate ;    her  smile 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  93 

was  seldom  seen ;  and  her  large,  dovelike  eyes  often 
drooped  with  the  tears  which  so  frequently  weighed 
their  lashes.  Her  beauty  had  not  diminished,  but 
had  assumed  a  more  ethereal  appearance.  Having 
exerted  herself  fruitlessly  to  the  utmost  to  ward  off 
the  sorrow  which  oppressed  her,  her  friends  had 
advised  a  change  of  climate.  She  was  going  to  the 
south  of  France  for  the  three  winter  months  ;  and, 
when  the  two  friends  parted,  many  of  the  scholars 
predicted  they  would  never  meet  again. 

Eliza's  absence  made  a  void  in  the  school  not  to  be 
filled  while  Edith  remained.  Her  devoted  and  uni- 
form attentions,  her  gentle  admonitions,  were  those 
of  an  affectionate  sister ;  and  Edith  had  often  trem- 
bled with  apprehension  that  serenity  and  happi- 
ness so  undisturbed  as  their  intercourse  bestowed 
could  not  continue.  Her  friend  was  indeed  gone; 
but  her  own  departure  was  nearer  than  she  had  anti- 
cipated. She  had  been  two  years  at  Mrs.  Lanmeer's 
school,  and  might  be  called  a  thoroughly  educated 
and  accomplished  girl ;  sound  in  principle,  unflinch- 
ing in  integrity,  but  at  times  a  little  too  self-reliant. 
She  knew  her  capabilities ;  but,  it  must  be  said,  she 
occasionally  over-estimated  them,  and  thought  her- 
self possessed  of  more  power  than  she  had. 

She  was  much  surprised,  late  one  afternoon,  by 
being  summoned  to  the  parlor,  where  Mrs.  Lan- 
meer,  with  very  little  preparation,  announced  that 
Caroline  and  herself  were  to  leave  school  at  the  end 
of  the  term,  not  to  return. 


94  EDITH; 

"Not  to  return  ?  "  she  said.  "  I  presumed  I  was 
to  stay  here  until  my  school  education  was  completed. 
"What  is  the  reason  ?  Is  any  thing  the  matter  in  Mr. 
Courtenay's  family  ?  " 

Mrs.  Lanmeer  then  told  her  she  had  just  received 
a  letter  from  Mrs.  Courtenay,  saying  her  husband 
had  met  with  heavy  losses  at  sea,  and  in  a  cotton 
speculation,  by  which  his  property  was  so  much 
reduced,  he  must  remove  his  daughter  from  so  expen- 
sive an  establishment  as  East  Gate. 

"  And  my  small  fortune  ?  "  Edith  paused,  not 
daring  to  make  further  inquiry. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  say  your  property  is  also  involved  ; 
not  by  Mr.  Courtenay ;  but  the  agent  to  whom  it  was 
confided  embarked  a  part  of  it  in  the  same  specula- 
tion, which  will  ruin  hundreds  of  other  people." 

Edith  burst  into  tears  ;  not  for  her  own  loss,  but 
for  the  distress  of  her  mother. 

"  Why  did  not  mamma  write  to  me  ? "  she 
asked. 

"  She  was  unfit  for  the  task,  but  probably  will  be 
able  to  do  so  in  a  few  days.  I  beg  of  you  to  try  and 
preserve  your  composure,  Miss  Dacres  ;  brace  your 
mind  to  bear  this  reverse  with  patient  submission. 
To  know  you  were  distressed  would  add  to  Mrs. 
Courtenay's  already  heavily  la^en  heart.  This  was 
wholly  unexpected  to  her ;  but,  from  her  letter  to 
me,  I  should  judge  she  bore  up  heroically.  You 
must  endeavor  to  do  the  same.  I  would  not  speak 
of  it  to  Caroline :  she  is  haraly  old  enough  to  realize 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  95 

any  thing  connected  with  mercantile  affairs,  and  it 
would  be  difficult  to  explain  the1  alteration  in  her 
father's  circumstances." 

When  Edith  returned  to  the  schoolroom,  how 
changed  every  thing  appeared !  Her  eyes  were 
filled  with  tears.  There  are  some  things  for 
which  all  the  preparations  we  fancy  we  have  made 
fade  before  the  reality.  The  loss  of  property  may 
be  placed  among  them ;  and,  for  a  young  girl  reared 
in  the  lap  of  affluence,  some  strength  of  mind  is 
needed  to  bear  with  calmness  a  sudden  transition  to 
comparative  poverty.  Her  expectations  seemed  sor- 
rpwfully  blighted;  a  cloud  hung  over  her  future 
life,  darkening  its  brightness.  She  was  to  see  her 
more  than  mother  struggling  with  adversity:  this 
was  to  her  a  greater  sorrow  than  her  own  losses. 
Slowly  and  pensively  she  took  her  accustomed  seat, 
hardly  venturing  to  look  at  Caroline,  lest  her  coun- 
tenance should  betray  the  sad  tale  of  their  mutual 
misfortunes.  At  that  moment,  one  of  the  last  beams 
of  the  setting  sun  darted  through  the  casements, 
and  shed  its  light  on  many  a  fair  girl.  Common  as 
a  sunbeam  is,  and  often  as  it  is  overlooked,  this  ray 
of  light  went  directly  to  the  heart  of  Edith.  She 
in  one  moment  remembered  how  many  blessings  were 
yet  left  her;  and  the  sudden  blaze  of  glory  seemed 
to  promise  brightness,  and  to  be  symbolical  of  days 
of  happiness.  She  wondered  why  she  should  have 
allowed  herself  to  be  thus  affected  by  Mrs.  Lanmeer's 
information ;  and,  summoning  all  her  cheerfulness 


96  EDITH; 

to  her  aid,  the  evening  was  passed  without  mention- 
ing a  word  to  one  of  her  companions,  sure  as  she 
was  of  their  sympathy.  On  her  bed  that  night, 
Edith  resolved,  if  it  were  possible,  to  bear  submis- 
sively the  changes  of  fortune ;  to  strive,  by  every 
means,  to  keep  from  her  mother  the  sorrowful 
feeling  by  which  she  had  been  oppressed ;  and 
to  exert  every  effort  to  improve  in  her  studies 
during  the  short  time  which  yet  remained  to  her  at 
school. 

In  a  few  days,  a  letter  came  from  her  mother, 
written  in  a  spirit  of  cheerful  submission,  which,  if 
possible,  added  to  Edith's  love  for  this  estimable 
woman.  She  wrote  her,  adversity  always  strength- 
ened ties  of  affection  where  the  heart  was  properly 
disciplined.  "  At  any  rate,"  continued  she,  "  I  seem 
to  love  my  children  more  dearly  than  ever.  Your 
home,  Edith,  must  always  be  with  us,  until  I  con- 
sign you  to  a  still  nearer  protector  :  we  will  share 
together  what  is  left  of  our  fortunes,  and  mutually 
comfort  each  other.  My  husband  suffers  so  much  in 
the  disappointment  of  his  hopes,  his  letters  are  so 
desponding,  that  I  feel  called  upon  to  make  addi- 
tional efforts  for  his  dear  sake." 

Edith  applied  herself  more  diligently  than  ever, 
and  exhorted  Caroline  to  industry  and  perseverance 
in  her  studies,  suggesting  to  her  that  they  might 
soon  be  called  home.  Mrs.  Courtenay's  next  letter 
announced  her  intention  of  quitting  her  house  for  a 
less  expensive  one,  dismissing  the  footman,  and  try- 


OR,    THE    LIGHT   OF    HOME.  97 

ing,  by  every  proper  means,  to  live  economically, 
and  in  a  way  very  different  from  her  former  mode  of 
life. 

Time  travelled  on  until  near  the  close  of  the  term, 
when  Edith's  last  poetical  recitation  was  to  be  Par- 
nell's  "  Hermit."  The  examination  in  the  other 
studies  was  to  be  private ;  but  the  declamation  would 
take  place  before  the  assembled  school,  and  was  by 
far  the  most  interesting  exercise.  She  had  committed 
it  thoroughly  to  memory  ',  the  pupils  flattered  her 
upon  her  beautiful  style  of  elocution ;  she  had  been 
pronounced  the  best  speaker  in  the  class ;  and,  as 
the  day  approached  for  this  exhibition,  she  felt  very 
sanguine  the  prize  would  be  awarded  her.  Nobody 
doubted  it ;  the  young  ladies,  as  if  by  common  con- 
sent, said  she  must  receive  it ;  competition  there 
could  not  be,  as  her  manner  of  speaking  was  unri- 
valled. Had  Eliza  Sedley  been  there,  Edith  would 
have  been  less  susceptible  to  the  flattery  about  her ; 
for  her  calm  judgment  would  have  warned  her  of 
the  possibility  of  defeat,  and  the  disappointment, 
resulting  from  it.  But  Eliza  was  in  a  distant  land ; 
and  the  excitement  of  her  young  friend  was  doing  its 
work  mentally  and  physically,  showing  itself  in  her 
faded  cheek  and  unnatural  restlessness  of  manner. 
It  would  be  her  last  lesson  at  school;  she  was  to 
return  to  a  home  made  sad  by  recent  misfortunes ; 
and  she  earnestly  wished  to  have  one  cheering  thing 
to  say  to  her  mother,  —  to  tell  her  she  had  been  the 
successful  candidate  for  the  prize.  A  feeling  so  laud- 

9 


98  EDITH; 

able    deserved   reward ;    and   she    felt   assured   she 
should  not  be  disappointed. 

Does  visible  success  always  follow  "  laudable  " 
exertions  ?  The  annals  of  the  world  tell  a  far  differ- 
ent tale ;  and  their  testimony  is  confirmed  by  the 
experience  of  almost  every  life. 


OR,    THE    LIGHT   OF    HOME.  99 


CHAPTER     XVI. 


"  Thus  would  I,  at  the  parting  hour,  be  true 
To  the  great  moral  of  a  passing  world ; 
Thus  would  I,  like  a  just-departing  child 
Who  lingers  on  the  threshold  of  his  home, 
Remember  the  best  lesson  of  the  lips 
Whose  accents  shall  be  with  us  now  no  more ; 
And  I  would  press  the  lesson."  —  N.  P.  WILLIS. 


THE  day  at  last  arrived  in  which  the  prize  for  elocu- 
tion was  to  be  bestowed.  Many  recitations  had  been 
made,  all  subject  to  criticism.  When  Edith's  turn 
came,  her  cheek  was  flushed  with  hope,  almost  with 
certainty  of  success  ;  for,  on  the  morning  of  the  day, 
the  young  ladies  of  her  class  had  said  they  would 
make  a  Corinna  of  her,  and  crown  her  with  a  chaplet 
of  evergreen,  as  they  could  not  bestow  les  lauriers. 
Of  course,  all  these  flattering  assurances  of  success 
heated  Edith's  imagination,  and  filled  her  mind  with 
confidence.  She  turned  her  eyes,  while  speaking, 
towards  that  part  of  the  room  where  her  warmest 
friends  were  seated ;  she  read  approval  in  their 
faces ;  and  she  proceeded  with  all  the  energy  of  a 


100  EDITH; 

well-trained  orator.  She  had  reached  that  part  of 
the  poem  where  the  hermit  — 

"  Bursts  the  bands  of  fear,  and  wildly  cries, 
'  Detested  wretch  ! '    But  scarce  his  speech  began, 
When  the  strange  partner  seemed  no  longer  man." 

She  had  exerted  herself  to  the  utmost,  to  give  full 
force  to  the  changes  in  these  lines  ;  her  nerves  had 
been  overtasked ;  and,  suddenly  pausing,  she  burst 
into  hysterical  sobs.  The  silence  of  death  pervaded 
the  schoolroom :  the  pupils  were  moved  almost  to 
tears  with  her.  Poor  Edith!  she  tried  to  subdue 
her  emotion  ;  made  an  effort  to  speak,  but  in  vain  ; 
her  voice  was  gone.  The  silence  was  broken  by  a 
calm,  cold  voice,  which  said,  — 

"  You  may  take  your  seat,  Miss  Dacres  :  there 
will  be  nothing  more  required  of  you." 

Her  courage  returned  in  a  moment ;  her  hands 
were  removed  from  her  face ;  and,  throwing  back 
the  dark  curls  which  had  shadowed  her  cheeks,  she 
inquired,  "Am  I  to  lose  all  chance  for  the  prize, 
be  allowed  no  second  trial,  because  my  overtasked 
mind  could  not  bear  so  much  excitement,  and  yielded 
to  feelings  I  was  no  longer  able  to  control  ?  " 

"No  allowance  can  be  made,"  replied  Mrs.  Lan- 
meer ;  "  it  would  be  unjust  to  the  other  candidates, 
and  a  wrong  precedent:  all  here  are  expected  to 
exercise  sufficient  self-command  as  not  to  sob  or  cry 
at  improper  times." 

These  words  were  uttered  in  a  tone  of  asperity  not 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  101 

exactly  in  accordance  with  the  sentiment  just  pro- 
nounced ;  but  there  was  no  appeal,  and  Edith  walked 
to  her  seat  with  a  proud  step.  She  had  failed  neither 
in  memory  nor  in  intonation ;  she  "  broke  down,"  as 
it  was  termed,  from  an  over-desire  of  success ;  she 
felt  no  shame  of  failure,  and  saw  the  prize  bestowed 
on  another  without  one  sentiment  of  envy  or  anger. 
She  was  disappointed,  but  not  abashed :  her  mind 
was  of  a  cast  too  elevated  to  allow  any  mean  feeling 
an  entrance. 

"  It  will  do  me  good,"  said  Edith.  And  it  proved 
a  salutary  lesson ;  for,  had  she  been  less  susceptible 
of  praise,  had  not  her  undue  appreciation  of  her  own 
gifts  made  her  so  confident  of  success,  her  nerves 
had  been  less  excited,  and  no  failure  of  voice  would 
have  probably  occurred. 

When  the  day  was  over,  as,  fatigued  and  dispirited, 
she  was  caressing  Caroline  to  relieve  her  exhaustion, 
the  scholars  crowded  round  her  with  the  wreath,  to 
which  had  been  added  some  hot-house  flowers.  She 
steadily  rejected  it.  The  successful  candidate  ap- 
proached her  with  a  beautiful  medal,  saying,  in  a 
sweet-toned  voice,  "Miss  Dacres,  this  ought  to  be 
yours  :  all  you  repeated  of  the  '  Hermit '  was  in  far 
better  style  than  my  recitation.  Oblige  me  by 
accepting  it :  in  justice,  it  is  yours." 

"  Never  ! "  said  Edith ;  "  do  not  ask  it.  But  I 
would  rather  see  a  nature  such  as  yours,  Miss  Burke, 
such  freedom  from  selfishness,  than  wear  a  diadem 
or  a  medal,  —  such  things  are  comparatively  worth- 

9* 


102  EDITH; 

less ;  but  I  will  accept  what  I  shall  prize  more." 
And  she  held  up  her  rosy  lips  for  a  kiss. 

What  may  be  said  of  the  head  of  an  establishment, 
whose  guidance  over  the  young  was  so  misdirected  ? 
Ought  not  some  degree  of  sympathy  to  have  been 
bestowed  on  one  struggling  with  emotions  beyond 
her  control,  —  one  who  only  needed  a  smile  of  en- 
couragement to  cheer  her  faltering  heart  ?  But  no  : 
the  stern  disciplinarian  could  no  more  feel  as  Edith 
did  than  the  cold  marble  of  Pentelicus  could  bloom 
and  blush  as  a  living  rose. 

How  sad  to  have  the  warm  feelings  in  the  young 
sent  back  to  wither  and  blight  in  their  hearts,  and, 
but  for  the  sunny  influences  of  home  in  after-years, 
to  chill  them  into  distrust  of  all  who  surround 
them ! 

But  school-days,  so  falsely  named  "  the  happiest," 
have  an  end ;  and  the  hour  was  fast  approaching  when 
Edith's  connection  with  them  would  close.  Prepa- 
rations were  making  for  the  departure  of  herself  and 
Caroline.  She  then  learned  how  strong  had  been 
the  bond  of  union  with  her  companions,  —  far  more 
so  than  she  had  been  aware.  She  thought  she  loved 
no  one  but  Eliza  Sedley ;  but  now  she  called  up  the 
memory  of  so  many  kind  acts,  and  pleasant  words  so 
fitly  spoken,  that  she  was  half  inclined  to  charge 
herself  with  ingratitude  in  not  appreciating  them 
more  highly  at  the  time.  She  endeavored  also,  in 
her  goodness  of  heart,  to  shut  out  the  recollection 
of  severity  in  teachers.  She  tried  to  think  they 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  103 

•were  influenced  only  by  the  desire  for  the  pupil's 
improvement,  and  wondered  such  emotions  should 
arise  in  her  mind,  —  what  she  never  could  have 
dreamed  of  two  years  before,  when  she  entered  Elms- 
gate  House.  There  was  no  inconsistency  in  these 
feelings.  She  had  long  been  in  the  society  of  many 
amiable  girls ;  had  shunned  the  selfish  and  ill-tem- 
pered ;  was  conscious  she  should  leave  a  good  name 
behind  for  assiduity  and  patience.  She  had  be- 
friended the  oppressed  when  occasion  required,  and, 
if  she  had  been  less  social  in  her  feelings  than  many 
of  her  school-fellows,  had  never  shrunk  from  receiv- 
ing attention.  The  word  "tyrant,"  as  applied  to 
some  individuals,  was  softened :  she  hoped  to  forget 
there  was  such  a  word.  Making  an  effort  to  remem- 
ber only  kindness,  tenderness  in  occasional  illnesses, 
and  the  earnest  wish  to  see  her  a  scholar  and  a  lady- 
like girl,  her  forgiving  nature  determined  to  dwell 
no  more  upon  the  questionable  methods  adopted  to 
make  her  such. 

With  these  feelings,  the  hour  of  parting  was  a  sad 
one.  Caroline  had  always  been  a  great  favorite,  and 
was  loaded  with  caresses.  A  dozen  "  good-bys " 
were  spoken  at  once  ;  "  Don't  forget  us,  dear  Carrie !  " 
was  echoed  all  round. 

Edith  looked  in  each  familiar  face,  —  in  many  for 
the  last  time  :  the  tears  streamed  over  her  cheeks,  the 
paleness  of  which  told  how  she  suffered.  She  em- 
braced the  members  of  her  class  fervently;  gazed  at 
every  familiar  spot  in  the  schoolroom :  that  room, 


104  EDITH  ; 

lighted  in  summer  by  the  setting  sun,  through  the 
casements  of  which  had  crept  the  wild  rose  and 
honeysuckle  in  such  luxuriance,  and  which,  in  cold 
winter  mornings,  had  seen  the  joyous  group  of  girls 
crowding  round  the  large  coal  fire,  —  that  room  was 
never  again  to  be  entered  ;  all  its  sad  and  its  pleasant 
associations  were  now  to  be  at  rest.  The  playground 
was  the  last  spot  to  be  visited :  here  she  had  first 
learned  to  love  Eliza  Sedley ;  here  heard  her  first 
sweet  accents  of  encouragement;  here  had  echoed 
the  merry  laugh  from  many  gay  hearts  ;  here  the 
elastic  step  had  bounded  forward,  to  chase  the  flying 
girl  who  held  the  ball  or  struck  the  shuttlecock. 

All  was  now  ended  :  her  companions  were  silently 
standing  by  her,  watching  the  expression  in  her 
varying  countenance,  when  she  suddenly  exclaimed, 
"  Dear,  dear  girls,  may  God  bless  you ! "  and,  in  a 
few  minutes,  the  sound  of  the  retreating  carriage- 
wheels  was  all  left  to  them  of  the  loved  Edith 
Dacres.  The  place  which  knew  her  knew  her  no 
more. 

"  We  loved  thee  passing  well :  thon  wert  a  beam 
Of  pleasant  beauty  on  this  stormy  sea." 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  105 


CHAPTER     XVII. 


"  She  walks  in  beauty,  like  the  night 
Of  cloudless  climes  and  starry  skies ; 

And  all  that's  best  of  dark  and  bright 
Meet  in  her  aspect  and  her  eyes : 

Thus  mellowed  to  that  tender  light 
Which  heaven  to  gaudy  day  denies." 


AFFAIRS  at  Glendale  Farm  had  changed  but  little. 
Mary  Leslie  might  daily  be  seen  pursuing  her  duties 
as  a  housekeeper,  or  seated  in  the  library,  either 
drawing  or  reading.  Her  walks  to  the  cottages  were 
generally  alone,  as  Matilda  was  still  at  school,  and 
Arthur  had  gone  from  Eton  to  Cambridge  ;  and 
while  Mr.  Leslie  was  busily  engaged  on  his  estate, 
directing  various  improvements,  Mary  was  necessa- 
rily thrown  upon  her  own  resources. 

Though  generally  cheerful,  she  often  longed  for 
the  society  of  Edith,  and  wished  the  time  to  arrive 
when  she  could  be  with  her,  as  her  brief  visits 
during  the  vacations  had  been  any  thing  but  satisfac- 
tory. She  often  had  letters  from  her,  and  her  well- 
known  handwriting  was  never  received  but  with 
pleasure :  still,  the  restraint  under  which  she  wrote 


106  EDITH; 

could  hardly  be  said  to  afford  an  assurance  whether 
she  really  was  happy  or  not.  Mary  so  much  desired 
long  and  free  conversations  with  her  young  friend, 
now  site  was  old  enough  to  be  her  companion; 
longed  to  look  upon  her  bright,  intelligent  face,  —  to 
hear  the  sweet  tones  of  her  voice.  Mrs.  Courtenay 
had  informed  her  of  Edith's  improvement  in  music, 
for  which  she  had  early  displayed  a  very  decided 
taste  and  fondness.  In  drawing,  too,  she  had  made 
great  proficiency.  The  latter  accomplishment  Mary 
could  enjoy  with  her ;  but  she  had  no  ear  for  music, 
and  knew  nothing  of  the  science.  The  news  of  Mr. 
Courtenay's  loss  of  property  had  been  known  some 
time  at  Glendale.  With  Mary,  it  was  cause  for  deep 
sorrow  ;  but  Mr.  Leslie  had  no  sympathy  with  "  spe- 
culators," and  spoke  of  Mr.  Courtenay  as  having 
induced  his  misfortunes  by  his  own  want  of  fore- 
thought. 

"  Who  but  a  madman  would  have  risked  such  an 
amount  of  property  at  one  time,  or  on  the  fluctua- 
tions of  a  cotton -market  ?  The  dispersion  of  the 
West-India  fleet  in  a  hurricane,  or  their  sudden 
arrival  when  supposed  to  be  lost,  is  what  all  should 
be  prepared  for.  Of  course,  either  event  affects  the 
price  of  cotton." 

This  was  his  way  of  talking.  Nobody  contradicted 
him  or  disputed  his  opinion,  as  he  seldom  yielded 
to  argument ;  his  own  judgment  he  was  apt  to  con- 
sider infallible  :  but  there  were  those  who  thought, 
if  Mr.  Courtenay  had  erred,  it  was  in  listening  to 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  107 

those  in  whom  he  had  too  much  confidence,  and 
being  influenced  by  them.  Luckily,  the  winds  did 
not  whisper  to  him  in  the  United  States  what  his 
friends  said  of  him  in  England :  exposed  as  he  was 
to  all  the  perplexities  of  pecuniary  embarrassments, 
without  the  solace  of  his  wife's  encouraging  cheerful- 
ness or  his  children's  presence,  he  was  sufficiently 
unhappy  without  this  additional  cause  for  disquietude. 

Nobody  who  witnessed  his  efforts  to  retrieve  his 
affairs,  or  who  knew  one-half  of  his  daily  trials, 
would  have  ever  uttered  a  reproachful  word. 

As  Mary  sat  busily  engaged  with  her  needle,  one 
morning,  a  servant  handed  her  a  letter,  addressed  to 
her  father  :  it  was  sealed  with  black  wax,  and  post- 
marked Glasgow.  She  immediately  despatched  the 
servant  for  him.  When  he  entered  the  library,  she 
said,  holding  the  letter  towards  him,  — 

"  Papa,  I  fear  there  is  bad  news  from  Scotland : 
this  seal  speaks  of  evil  tidings." 

Mr.  Leslie,  during  its  perusal,  appeared  much 
shocked,  and,  handing  it  to  his  daughter,  said,  "  My 
poor  brother  Arthur  is  dead  !  " 

"  Dead,  papa  ?  " 

"  Yes,  my  dear,  he  is  dead,  and,  ere  this,  buried. 
I  am,  it  seems,  one  of  his  executors,  and  must  be  off 
for  Scotland  immediately.  How  will  you  get  on 
alone  ?  Matilda  cannot  come  home  ;  and  I  should 
be  very  unwilling  to  ask  permission  for  Arthur  to 
leave  college,  even  for  a  fortnight.  What  will  you 
do?" 


108 


EDITH 


"  Oh  ! "  said  Mary,  "  Edith  Dacres  has  just  left 
school.  I  will  send  for  her,  if  Mrs.  Courtenay  will 
spare  her  for  a  week  or  two." 

"  I  am  very  glad  you  will  have  so  pleasant  a  com- 
panion, Mary  :  you  will  have  drawing,  music,  and 
all  other  things  for  your  happiness." 

"  Except  your  society,  papa ;  and  the  knowledge 
of  your  being  on  a  journey  in  a  bad  season,  and  on 
a  melancholy  occasion,  will  add  to  my  sorrow  for 
your  absence." 

"  But,  Mary,"  returned  her  father,  "  you  have 
said  not  a  word  about  Arthur's  legacy :  two  thou- 
sand pounds  for  his  name,  so  the  will  says." 

"  He  will  make  a  good  use  of  it,"  said  Mary ; 
"  and  I  think  it  speaks  well  for  my  uncle's  confi- 
dence in  him,  to  allow  immediate  possession :  he  is 
not  yet  twenty  years  old." 

"  My  brother  always  loved  him,"  replied  Mr.  Les- 
lie, "and  has  often  said  he  was  proud  he  bore  his 
name.  Poor  fellow  !  I  wish  I  could  have  seen  him  ; 
but  his  illness  was  of  so  short  duration,  I  could  not 
have  reached  him." 

The  next  day,  Mr.  Leslie  left  home.  Mary  wrote 
to  her  brother  of  his  uncle's  sudden  death ;  and  to 
Mrs.  Courtenay,  to  ask  for  Edith's  society.  She 
was  not  one  of  those  young  ladies  who  cannot  bear 
to  be  alone,  who  need  excitement  to  make  the  coun- 
try endurable ;  but  her  father  so  seldom  left  home 
for  more  than  a  day,  that  she  felt  time  would  per- 
haps move  slowly  without  companionship  with  some 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  109 

one.  The  weather,  too,  at  that  season,  was  cold, 
damp,  and  foggy ;  the  evenings  long,  when  the  pelt- 
ing rain  or  the  sighing  wind  would  alone  disturb  her 
solitude.  No  wonder  Mary  desired  a  bright  and 
beautiful  girl  to  occupy  a  place  by  the  fireside  or  at 
the  tea-table.  The  first  evening  of  Mr.  Leslie's  ab- 
sence was  dreary  enough ;  for  the  weather  had  been 
threatening  a  storm  all  day,  and,  by  eight  o'clock,  it 
came  on  with  much  violence.  Mary  sat  alone  in 
the  library,  busily  engaged  alternately  with  her  work 
and  a  book :  but  the  possibility  of  any  exposure  to 
her  father  in  such  a  night  caused  too  much  excite- 
ment for  either  to  interest  her  long;  and  she  sat 
listening  to  the  wind  until  her  usual  hour  for  retiring, 
longing  to  see  Edith,  or  to  have  Arthur  at  home,  if 
only  to  hear  a  voice  say  the  simple  words,  "  Good- 
night !  " 


10 


110  EDITH 


CHAPTER    XVIII. 


"  I  do  not  love  thee ;  yet,  when  thou  art  gone, 

I  hate  the  sound  (though  those  who  speak  be  dear) 
Which  breaks  the  lingering  echo  of  the  tone 
Thy  Toice  of  music  leaves  upon  my  ear." 


THE  sun  was  still  high,  in  the  heavens  when  the  car- 
riage which  conveyed  Edith  and  Caroline  stopped 
before  the  house  into  which  Mrs.  Courtenay  had 
removed.  It  was  smaller  than  the  former  mansion; 
but  it  looked  cheerful  in  the  bright  sunlight.  The 
door  was  opened  by  dear,  good  Jenny ;  and,  in  a 
moment,  the  two  girls  were  in  their  mother's  fond 
embrace. 

"  Edith,  my  dear  Edith,  how  tall  you  are !  how 
you  are  changed !  But  you  are  pale,  love ;  while 
Caroline  looks  as  fresh  as  a  rose,  with  her  glowing 
cheeks." 

"  I  have  been  fatigued  and  excited,  mamma,  dur- 
ing the  past  fortnight,  but  shall  soon  have  a  bloom 
equal  to  Caroline's.  I  only  need  rest." 

"  You  find  me  in  a  different  house  from  the  one 
you  left,"  said  Mrs.  Courtenay,  dejectedly ;  "  but 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  Ill 

happiness  is  not  the  necessary  inmate  of  a  large  house, 
and  I  think  we  shall  be  happy  now  we  are  once  more 
together.  Did  Edward  feel  anxious  to  be  able  to 
return  ?  " 

"  He  said,"  replied  Edith,  "  a  few  days  before  we 
left,  that  he  hoped  you  would  allow  him  to  be  at 
home  in  the  next  vacation,  and  not  let  him  return  to 
Rochester.  He  seems  very  desirous  to  go  to  Ame- 
rica; threatens  to  tease  until  he  is  permitted  to 
go." 

"  That  will  depend  upon  what  his  father  writes  : 
I  shall  have  nothing  to  say  upon  the  subject." 

The  joy  of  being  again  restored  to  Mrs.  Courtenay 
and  home  soon  made  Edith's  cheeks  bloom  as  they 
were  wont.  The  house  was  cheerful,  yet  quiet. 
She  missed,  for  a  time,  the  busy  scenes  of  school- 
life,  the  regularity  of  her  days'  employments,  and 
found  it  difficult  at  first,  with  so  many  interruptions, 
to  obtain  opportunities  for  practising  either  music  or 
drawing. 

Then  there  were  so  many  young  friends  to  see, 
Grandmamma  Harcourt  and  Margaret  to  visit  often, 
and  the  days  were  so  short  and  so  dark,  —  how 
was  it  she  could  accomplish  so  much  at  East- 
gate  House  ?  She  soon,  however,  fell  into  her  old 
habits  of  studying  a  part  of  every  day,  reviewing 
her  French,  history,  &c.,  resolutely  determining  to 
lose  no  time. 

The  subject  of  her  reduced  income  was,  at  her 
request,  not  discussed :  there  were  still  a  thousand 


EDITH; 

pounds  left ;  and  she  hoped  the  interest  of  this  sum 
would  meet  all  her  expenses.  Luxuries  she  could 
easily  resign  ;  and  a  chance  yet  existed  that  her 
affairs  might  turn  out,  in  a  year  or  two,  better  than 
was  at  first  expected. 

She  exerted  every  effort  to  keep  up  her  mother's 
spirits,  which  were  apt  to  falter  when  letters  arrived 
from  Mr.  Courtenay.  He  evidently  tried  to  write 
cheerfully  :  he  often  spoke  of  himself  as  returning 
to  England  a  man  of  broken  fortunes  ;  at  other  times, 
feared  he  should  not  be  able  to  arrange  his  business 
to  leave  America,  and  that  he  should  be  obliged  to 
send  for  his  family.  He  seemed  to  mourn  so  much 
over  the  separation  from  them,  that  Mrs.  Courtenay 
earnestly  implored  him  to  consult  his  own  happiness 
alone.  She  was  willing  to  undertake  the  voyage,  to 
do  any  thing,  only  to  know  he  was  happy ;  to  think 
not  of  wealth,  or  to  care  for  it :  a  bare  competence 
for  herself  and  children  was  all  she  could  wish. 
One  morning,  as  Edith  entered  the  parlor,  she  found 
her  mother  in  tears,  an  open  letter  in  her  hand,  from 
which  she  learned  Mr.  Courtenay's  affairs  had  proved 
in  a  worse  state  than  he  had  expected ;  in  fact,  he 
was  a  bankrupt.  The  whole  amount  of  deprivations 
a  failure  brings  is  not  realized  at  once  :  day  by  day, 
the  severity  of  it  increases.  It  were  useless  to  dwell 
on  the  trials  of  a  woman's  heart  and  a  man's  fortitude 
when  the  sad  truth  bursts  upon  them  that  ruin  is 
around.  To  be  accustomed  to  luxury,  and  then 
suddenly  to  resign  it,  is  no  very  easy  task,  even  to  a 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  113 

well-disciplined  mind.  Mrs.  Courtenay  shrunk  not 
from  the  blow ;  but  it  was  not  possible  at  all  times 
to  be  tranquil.  A  sad  change  had  come  over  her 
domestic  life,  and  she  needed  fortitude  to  bear  it ; 
but  the  fortitude  was  given. 

It  was  at  this  time  that  Mary  Leslie's  letter  arrived, 
requesting  Edith's  presence. 

"  Mamma,"  she  exclaimed,  after  reading  it,  "  I 
cannot  leave  you,  even  for  dear  Glendale.  You  are 
oppressed  by  a  weight  of  care  I  would  gladly  share 
with  you  :  there  could  be  no  enjoyment  for  me  while 
knowing  you  are  so  sad." 

"  My  dear  Edith,"  Mrs.  Courtenay  replied,  "  it  is 
my  wish,  my  request,  that  you  go.  This  lesson  of 
adversity  I  must  learn  to  bear ;  and,  while  I  love 
you  all  the  better  for  your  willingness  to  give  up 
your  pleasure  for  my  poor  society,  it  would  be  a 
morally  wrong  thing  in  me  to  keep  you  from  a  friend 
whose  kindness  to  you  has  been  undeviating,  and 
who  is  now  alone  :  add  to  which,  my  regret  at  seeing 
your  cheerfulness  deserting  you.  Besides,  you  know 
my  cousin's  legacy  is  still  left ;  that  will  afford  us 
various  comforts.  We  are  becoming  accustomed  to 
living  without  many  of  the  indulgences  we  once 
thought  indispensable :  on  this  head,  therefore,  all 
anxiety  is  unnecessary.  My  grief  is  not  for  the  loss 
of  the  elegancies  of  my  former  life,  but  for  my  hus- 
band's perplexities,  and  the  mortification  he  suffers 
at  the  mistake  he  made  in  investing  so  large  an 
amount  of  property  in  that  unfortunate  cotton  specu- 

10* 


114  EDITH  ; 

lation.  But  we  will  not  dwell  on  this  subject.  Go, 
'dear  Edith,  and  prepare  for  your  visit.  I  shall  often 
see  Mrs.  Harcourt ;  will  write  you,  and,  I  hope,  in 
a  cheerful  spirit." 

The  day  of  Edith's  departure  for  Glendale,  she 
received,  just  before  setting  out,  a  letter  from  Eliza 
Sedley,  dated  Palermo.  She  had  left  France,  and 
gone,  for  the  winter,  to  Sicily. 

"  Judging  from  my  eager  desire  to  hear  from  you,  I  feel  I  am 
not  deceived  in  thinking  my  letters  give  you  pleasure. 

"  I  arrived  here  only  a  few  days  since,  and  this  morning  heard 
of  an  opportunity  to  send  you  a  letter  by  private  conveyance. 
My  health  is  steadily  improving,  and  my  spirits  also.  I  try  to 
think  of  the  past  as  little  as  possible ;  for  the  kind  friends  with 
whom  I  am  travelling  have  claims  on  my  cheerfulness ;  and,  for 
their  sakes,  I  endeavor  to  be  gay.  I  am  continually  occupied  in 
sight-seeing ;  but  my  chief  enjoyment  is  in  the  scenery,  which  is 
beautiful  beyond  my  feeble  attempts  at  description ;  and  there  are 
flowers  in  abundance,  even  now,  in  which  you,  dear  Edith,  would 
delight.  In  riding,  we  often  wind  among  high  mountains,  and 
through  richly  cultivated  valleys,  where  are  seen  the  mulberry 
and  the  olive  flourishing  in  then-  native  soil  to  the  highest  degree 
of  perfection,  and,  with  them,  what  is  called  the  '  Indian  fig.' 

"  Our  mode  of  riding  would  make  you  smile,  as  it  is  on  mules, 
with  muleteers  to  guide  them;  though  sometimes  the  litiga  is 
used,  —  a  sort  of  sedan,  carried  by  two  men  on  poles. 

"  Palermo  is  situated  in  a  rich  vale,  surrounded  by  mountains, 
some  of  which  are  volcanic. 

"  We  shall  probably  visit  Syracuse ;  and  I  hope  to  be  able  to 
enter  the  Cave  of  Dionysius.  Do  you  remember  how  we  used  to 
enjoy  the  description  of  this  cave,  and  the  story  of  Arethusa,  — 
her  flight  from  the  river-god  Alpheus  ?  Who  would  have  sup- 
posed then  that  I  should  so  soon  tread  classical  ground  ? 

"  I  am  going,  this  evening,  to  a  conversazione,  where  I  hope 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  115 

to  see  some  Sicilian  ladies,  who,  1  believe,  are  generally  educated 
in  convents,  and  of  course  ought  to  be  well  informed,  as  I  always 
imagine  nuns  must  be  highly  intellectual. 

"  I  very  often  think  of  you,  dearest  Edith,  and  the  patient  for- 
bearance with  which  you  bore  the  trials  of  a  schoolgirl's  life,  — 
your  disinterested  conduct  on  so  many  occasions,  your  noble 
defence  of  the  injured;  but,  after  all,  we  had  our  pleasures,  many 
a  source  of  enjoyment  which  we  perhaps  at  the  time  overlooked. 
Write  me  as  often  as  you  can  during  the  winter.  Adieu  (as  Co- 
rinne  said),  '  Adieu,  mon  ami,  —  vous  avec  qui  j'ai  passe*  de  jours  si 
doux  et  si  facile.' " 

This  letter  imparted  great  happiness  to  Edith ;  for 
she  had  not  heard  from  Miss  Sedley  since  she  was  in 
Montpelier,  where  her  visit,  she  knew,  was  brief,  as 
her  friends  had  changed  their  plans  before  they  ar- 
rived in  France. 

She  went  to  Glendale  in  improved  spirits ;  was 
most  affectionately  welcomed  by  her  friend,  who  was 
much  struck  by  the  graceful  elegance  of  her  figure, 
and  the  irresistible  charm  of  her  countenance.  Her 
eyes  seemed  more  beautiful  than  ever ;  her  luxuriant 
hair,  "  black  as  the  raven's  wing,"  was  arranged  so 
classically  and  so  becomingly  on  her  finely  formed 
head,  that  Mary,  as  she  kissed  her  glowing  cheek, 
said,  "  Why,  Edith !  I  should  hardly  have  known 
you,  though  but  six  months  since  I  saw  you,  —  may 
I  say  it  ?  —  you  are  so  improved." 

"  Well,"  said  Edith,  laughing,  "  it  proves  school- 
discipline  has  been  beneficial  in  my  case :  but  the 
heightened  color  in  my  cheeks  may  be  attributed  to 
joy  in  seeing  you ;  and  for  my  increased  height,  to 


116  EDITH  ; 

the  exercise  I  was  compelled  to  take  at  East-gate 
House,  where  I  was  obliged  daily  to  be  in  the  open 
air  during  the  time  I  was  not  in  the  schoolroom  at 
my  lessons." 

"  What  will  Arthur  say  to  you  when  he  next  sees 

you  ? " 

"  Arthur  ?  "  said  Edith,  slightly  adding  to  her  color 
by  a  blush.  "  Is  not  Arthur  at  home  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no  !  "  sighed  Mary ;  "  his  college  studies 
occupy  all  his  time :  he  is  now  seldom  at  home.  I 
doubt,  had  he  not  been  in  Cambridge,  whether  I 
should  have  sent  for  you,  lest  your  attractions  had 
turned  his  head." 

Edith  was  soon  settled  in  her  delightful  room, 
adjoining  Mary's.  They  usually  passed  their  morn- 
ings in  the  library,  drawing,  working,  &c.  Each 
day  added  to  their  enjoyment  of  each  other's  society. 

Mary  was  occasionally  called  away  to  attend  to  her 
domestic  concerns,  and  left  Edith  sometimes  for  an 
hour  alone.  They  had  been  together  but  four  or 
five  days,  when,  as  Edith  sat  one  morning  bending 
over  her  drawing-board,  copying  a  little  sketch  of 
Morland's,  she  felt' a  hand  gently  laid  on  her  head, 
and  a  voice  whispered,  "  Look  up  from  that  draw- 
ing !  "  She  started,  and  as  she  turned,  expecting  to 
see  Mary,  encountered  the  laughing  face  of  Arthur. 
She  became  very  pale,  felt  almost  faint ;  when  he  bent 
over  her,  and,  touching  her  hair  with  his  lips,  said, 
"  Edith,  I  am  shocked  that  I  alarmed  you :  you  look 
as  if  you  had  seen  a  spectre." 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  117 

"  Not  very  much  like  a  spectre,  Arthur,  is  your 
present  appearance ;  but  you  did  frighten  me :  you 
are  such  a  man,  too,  now,  —  so  tall,  so  altered, 

and  " She  stopped :  she  could  have  said,  "  so 

handsome  too  !  Does  Mary  know  you  are  here  ? 
Shall  I  call  her  ?  " 

"  No,  no !  "  he  replied,  "  I  must  see  her  alone : 
she  will  scold.  The  truth  is,  when  I  received  her 
letter,  announcing  my  uncle's  death,  &c.,  I  deter- 
mined to  obtain  leave  to  come  home  for  a  few  days ; 
and,  Edith,  I  knew  you  were  to  be  here.  I  did  so 
want  to  see  you !  You  know  we  used  to  be  good 
friends,  when  you  were  a  little  girl,  and  I  a  boy." 

"  I  hope  we  are  so  still,"  she  ingenuously  said : 
"  I  could  never  bear  to  be  otherwise,  Arthur ;  for  I 
owe  a  great  deal  to  you.  Do  you  remember  the 
wreath  offered  me  in  this  room  ?  " 

"  Do  I  remember  it  ?   I  shall  never,  never  forget  it." 

Edith  felt,  with  the  intuitive  delicacy  of  a  young 
girl's  nature,  that  she  ought  not  to  have  asked  such 
a  question,  and,  blushing  at  her  want  of  thought, 
advised  Arthur  to  seek  his  sister. 

Notwithstanding  Mary's  rigid  notions  of  duty,  and 
her  feeling'  that  Arthur  had  done  wrongly  to  leave 
college  when  he  well  knew  his  father  would  be  dis- 
pleased, she  could  not  help  being  glad  to  see  him ; 
and,  as  she  looked  at  the  manly,  elegant  figure  before 
her,  she  was  indeed  proud  of  him,  because  she  knew, 
with  all  these  outward  graces,  there  was  so  strong 
an  intellect,  and  so  much  sterling  worth. 


118  EDITH; 

The  only  drawback  to  the  happiness  of  the  trio 
was  the  fear  of  Mr.  Leslie's  disapprobation,  when  he 
should  hear  his  son  had  been  at  home. 

How  many  memories  came  thronging  over  Edith, 
as  she  thought  of  her  Jiappy  childhood  at  Glendale, 
all  brought  back  by  Arthur's  sudden  appearance ! 
The  flowers  he  used  to  bring  her ;  the  walks  by  his 
side ;  his  soothing  tenderness  when  she  was  grieved 
or  out  of  humor ;  his  patient  endurance  of  her  petu- 
lance, —  all  these  garnered  treasures  of  memory  rose 
tumultuously  before  her,  until,  fearful  of  giving  way 
to  her  emotions,  she  went  to  her  chamber  to  tran- 
quillize her  heart,  and  restore  serenity  to  her  coun- 
tenance. 

She  was  very  young  to  have  such  feelings,  —  the 
symptoms  of  incipient  love.  But  Edith  had  always 
been  very  mature :  she  was  thoughtful  beyond  her 
years ;  and,  as  it  was  said  in  the  early  pages  of  her 
history,  her  insatiate  perusal  of  fiction  had  tended  to 
give  an  air  of  romance  to  her  after-life.  But  it  was 
a  romance  so  much  modified  by  her  good  sense, 
there  was  little  danger  of  its  ever  rendering  her  ridi- 
culous. Her  education  had  been  carefully  superin- 
tended by  competent  teachers  ;  her  mind  was  stored 
with  useful  knowledge  .to  a  degree  unusual  at  her 
age;  and  the  constant  thought  of  Mrs.  Courtenay's 
affection  had  stimulated  her  in  every  effort  for 
improvement.  She  was,  therefore,  at  fifteen,  what 
few  girls  are  at  eighteen,  —  womanly,  discreet,  and 
dignified. 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  119 

Four  days  passed  quickly  away,  and  Arthur  was 
obliged  to  return.  He  had  walked  with  his  sister 
and  Edith,  read  to  them,  enjoyed  all  so  brief  an 
interval  would  allow,  and  left  them. 

There  were  no  tears,  no  sorrowful  looks,  at  part- 
ing ;  but  a  cheerful  "  good-by,"  and  he  was  "  off  and 
away."  How  he  was  missed !  how  were  every  act 
and  word  dwelt  upon  !  Edith  tied  on  her  bonnet  for 
a  walk,  and  passed  through  a  lane,  which,  in  sum- 
mer, used  to  be  one  of  her  favorite  places  for  a 
stroll,  Arthur  still  in  her  mind,  though  he  had  been 
gone  some  hours  ;  still  thinking  of  his  radiant  smile, 
his  rich-toned  voice.  She  felt  a  little  ashamed  of 
this  indulgence,  and  turned  her  steps  homewards. 
She  met  Mary  in  the  parlor,  who  said,  "  You  do  not 
look  as  bright~  as  usual  to-day,  dear  Edith ;  yet  the 
weather  is  charming  for  the  season."  Edith's  color 
rose  to  her  temples  :  she  was  silent.  She  would  not 
say  why  she  was  less  animated,  and  she  would  not 
equivocate.  At  last  she  said,  as  she  tossed  her  bon- 
net on  a  table,  — 

"  May  I  sing  to  you  ?  " 

"  Do,"  said  Mary ;  "  and  let  the  song  be,  *  My 
mother  bids  me  bind  my  hair.'  I  believe  I  have  taste 
enough  to  appreciate  that ;  but  do  not  make  a  mis- 
take, and  say  Arthur  for  Colin." 

"Mary,  if  you  tease  me,  I  will  not  make  you 
another  visit  in  the  spring,  as  I  have  promised.  Re- 
member, I  am  not  a  little  girl  now  ;  I  shall  be  sixteen 
next  June :  you  ought  to  treat  me  with  more  re- 
spect." 


120  EDITH; 


CHAPTEE    XIX. 


"  My  boy,  thou  wilt  dream  the  world  is  fair, 

And  thy  spirit  will  sigh  to  roam, 
And  thou  must  go ;  but  never,  when  there, 
Forget  the  light  of  home." 


IN  a  few  days,  as  Mr.  Leslie  was  at  home  again,  and 
she  knew  how  much  Mrs.  Courtenay  would  need 
her  society,  Edith  returned  to  Milton.  She  found 
her  friend  very  cheerful,  though  looking  paler,  and 
somewhat  older,  than  previous  to  her  husband's  mis- 
fortunes :  even  three  short  weeks  had  affected  her 
appearance.  Caroline  had  been  invited  by  Mrs. 
Harcourt  to  continue  her  studies  with  Margaret 
Granville,  under  a  private  governess.  Marion  at- 
tended a  day-school.  In  all  other  things,  the  house- 
hold went  on  as  usual. 

Much  as  Edith  enjoyed  her  return  to  Milton,  the 
society  of  her  mother,  and  all  the  hallowed  influences 
of  home,  her  thoughts  frequently  wandered  back  to 
Elms-gate  House  with  strong  and  affectionate  interest. 
She  often  thought  of  the  hours  spent  with  Eliza  Sed- 
ley  in  study ;  their  quiet  walks  together,  while  the 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  121 

scholars  were  gayly  frolicking  in  the  fields  and  mea- 
dows ;  and  then  those  delicious  twilights,  when, 
seated  in  the  bow-window  of  the  schoolroom,  they 
conversed  on  serious  subjects,  and  indulged  their 
imaginations  in  anticipating  the  future,  whether  it 
would  be  gilded  with  the  sunshine  of  prosperity,  or 
shadowed  by  the  clouds  of  adversity.  Then  would 
follow  the  memory  of  Fanny  Gordon ;  the  uncer- 
tainty of  her  fate  ;  the  anxiety  to  know  if  she  were 
happy,  still  more  if  she  .were  worthy  their  interest. 
A  mystery  hung  over  her  which  no  one  could  solve ; 
for  the  interdict  at  school  with  respect  to  her  had 
been  scrupulously  obeyed.  Edith  occasionally  con- 
versed with  her  mother  about  her ;  related  various 
anecdotes  of  her  generous,  self-sacrificing  character, 
undisciplined  as  it  was  in  many  points.  Mrs.  Cour- 
tenay  sympathized  with  her  daughter  in  the  affection 
she  continued  to  feel  for  Fanny,  and  remarked  that 
her  errors  were  doubtless  the  result  of  over-indul- 
gence, and  the  neglect  of  a  fervent  religious  principle 
in  her  early  education.  Her  young  mind  had  never 
been  trained  to  the  cultivation  of  those  powers  which 
would,  as  she  advanced  towards  womanhood,  have 
guarded  her  from  the  indiscretion  of  which  she 
had  been  guilty,  to  give  her  conduct  the  mildest 
term. 

"  But,  mamma,"  Edith  said,  "  her  mother  was  a 
great  invalid,  and  doubtless  unable  to  superintend 
the  early  education  of  her  daughter." 

"  I  am  aware  of  that,  Edith :  but  she  was  rich ; 
H 


EDITH; 

and  wealth,  you  know,  does  command  the  services  of 
intelligent,  valuable  women.  One  could  easily  have 
been  found,  as  a  jprivate  governess,  who  might  have 
animated  this  misguided  girl  to  the  performance  of 
duty  in  an  extended  sense. 

"  I  trust,  Edith,  our  fears  for  her  moral  rectitude 
may  never  be  confirmed;  for  you  have  interested 
me  exceedingly  in  your  young  friend.  I  need  not 
tell  you,  I  should  rejoice,  if,  at  some  future  day,  you 
should  meet,  and  Fanny  be  enabled  to  remove  the 
cloud  which  now  rests  upon  her  conduct.  Your 
good  sense,  Edith,  will  tell  you  that  the  young  per- 
son who  is  careless  of  censure,  who  bids  defiance  to 
public  opinion,  from  what  she  calls  independence  of 
character,  proves  a  want  of  rectitude  of  mind  which 
but  too  often  ends  in  the  loss  of  reputation.  Her 
clandestine  correspondence,  her  disregard  of  the 
rules  of  the  school,  her  elopement,  speak  but  too 
plainly  of  her  indifference  to  delicacy  and  pro- 
priety." 

Edith  could  not  help  acknowledging  the  truth  of 
her  mother's  remarks ;  but  she  still  clung  with 
romantic  interest  and  pity  to  the  fascinating  but  faulty 
Fanny.  Had  they  parted  for  ever  ? 

Jenny  still  remained  in  Mrs.  Courtenay's  family, 
and  became  every  day  more  valuable.  It  was  impos- 
sible to  over-estimate  the  worth  of  this  domestic : 
her  devoted  faithfulness  ;  her  earnest  efforts  to  save 
the  feelings  of  her  mistress  in  every  way,  that  she 
might  not  realize  the  change  in  her  circumstances  ; 


OR,    THE    LIGHT   OF    HOME.  123 

the  same  attentive  kindness  in  waiting  upon  her, 
the  same  respectful  deportment.  A  thousand 
thoughtful  little  acts  betrayed  the  nobleness  of  this 
woman's  nature,  and  her  grateful  recollection  of  the 
kindness  which  had  watched  over  her  in  the  illness 
and  helplessness  of  former  days. 

Jenny's  attachments  were  very  strong  and  enthu- 
siastic ;  her  prejudices  equally  so.  She  thought  no 
portion  of  the  globe  could  be  compared  to  her  beau- 
tiful native  Wales.  It  was  pleasant  for  the  young 
people  to  hear  her  describe  its  mountains,  and  praise 
its  invigorating  air.  Her  manners,  far  superior  to- 
those  of  most  persons  in  her  rank  of  life,  together 
with  her  good  judgment  and  sound  common  sense, 
made  her  very  companionable.  One  of  her  accom- 
plishments was  tojtfn^at  parts  of  Gray's  "  Bard ;  "  to 
condemn  the  '$j(|^Kess  king,"  &c.  :  but,  had  the 
questions  teen  put  to  her  which  were  applied  to 
Miss  Edge^rth's  Rosamond,  poor  Jenny  could  no 
better  have  explained  the  meaning  of  — 

"  Helm  or  hauberk's  twisted  mail; " 

of  — 

"  High-born  Hoel's  harp,  or  soft  Llewellyn's  lay,"  — 

than  did  the  little  girl  who  boasted  she  understood 
the  poem  perfectly. 

Before  the  winter  set  in,  a  season  seldom  very 
severe  in  England,  Mr.  Courtenay  had  written  for 
his  son  Edward  to  come  to  the  United  States,  under 
the  guardianship  of  an  experienced  captain  who  com- 
manded a  ship  in  the  London  trade. 


124  EDITH; 

This  was  a  grief,  and  yet  cause  for  comfort,  to  his 
mother.  She  dreaded  to  part  with  him  for  such  a 
distance ;  but  she  knew  that  his  impetuous  nature 
needed  a  father's  guiding  and  restraining  hand. 
And  then,  to  use  the  language  of  another,  "  he  had 
conceived  that  strange  and  unaccountable  predilection 
for  the  sea,  which,  like  all  extraordinary  propensities, 
when  once  it  has  taken  possession  of  the  mind,  is 
not  to  be  expelled  by  any  thing  but  dear-bought 
experience." 

The  little  family  was  now  in  full  activity  with  the 
preparations  for  Edward's  sailing.  He  was  all  life 
and  energy  at  the  prospect  of  a  voyage  ;  thoughtless 
of  the  night-watches  of  his  mother,  who  would 
shrink  from  every  howling  wind,  and  whose  imagi- 
nation would  be  filled  with  images  of  danger  from 
rocks,  waves,  and  shipwreck  on  that  stormy  coast  to 
which  his  ship  was  bound.  His  ideas  of  the  sea 
were  only  of  excitement,  bustle,  and  enjoyment. 

The  captain  who  was  to  attend  to  his  outfit  had 
fully  indulged  his  fancy  for  a  sailor  costume ;  and 
one  morning,  when  all  were  busily  engaged  in  his 
service,  he  burst  into  the  room  with  "  How  do  you 
like  my  sou'-wester  and  monkey-pea  ?  "  His  mother 
hardly  knew  him  in  this  disguise :  but  he  looked  so 
manly,  so  handsome,  the  children  kissed  his  flushed 
cheeks  in  great  glee ;  and  Edith,  throwing  her  arms 
over  his  shoulders,  exclaimed,  "  How  can  we  part 
with  you  ?  Dear  Ned,  you  never  were  so  much  of  a 
brother  as  you  are  at  this  moment." 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME. 

Mrs.  Courtenay  looked  on  sorrowfully,  as  she  wit- 
nessed the  pleasure  the  young  people  seemed  to  feel 
in  the  novelty  of  Edward's  appearance  and  position 
as  a  sailor.  He  caught  her  tearful  eye,  and  said, 
gayly,  "  Now,  mother  dear,  don't  look  so  serious  : 
your  face  is  as  long  as  the  yard-arm  of  a  frigate." 

"  My  dear  boy,  where  did  you  learn  all  these  sea- 
terms  ?  " 

"  Oh !  "  said  Edward,  "  a  boy  at  our  school  taught 
me.  His  father  commands  a  ship,  and  took  him 
one  voyage.  He  enjoyed  a  sailor's  life,  and  used  to 
tell  his  mother  '  not  to  whimper.' 

1  There's  a  sweet  little  cherub  sits  smiling  aloft, 
To  keep  watch  for  the  life  of  poor  Jack.'  " 

"But,  my  dear  boy,"  his  mother  replied,  "you 
are  going  as  a  passenger :  you  will  not,  I  trust,  think 
of  going  aloft,  or  in  other  ways  exposing  yourself." 

"  Mother,  I  mean  to  learn  all  I  can  of  a  sailor- 
boy's  life,  and  not  skulk  in  the  cabin  half  my  time ; 
but  I  will  promise  to  be  very  careful."  And,  with 
this  assurance,  he  seemed  to  feel  there  could  be  no 
cause  for  anxiety. 

As  the  parting  hour  approached,  all  looked  very 
sad :  even  Edward's  gay  laugh  was  hushed,  and 
something  like  a  shadow  was  on  his  brow.  His 
mother  kept  up  her  courage  nobly ;  for,  while  she 
lamented  his  departure,  she  knew  he  would  be  a 
comfort  to  his  father,  as  he  was  now  a  companion- 
able, intelligent  boy. 

11* 


126  EDITH; 


CHAPTER    XX. 


"  He  left  his  home  with  a  bounding  heart, 

For  the  world  was  before  him, 
And  felt  it  scarce  a  pain  to  part, 

Such  sun-bright  beams  came  o'er  him. 
He  turned  to  visions  of  future  years : 

The  rainbow's  hues  were  round  them ; 
And  a  mother's  bodings,  a  mother's  fears, 

Might  not  weigh  the  hopes  that  crowned  him." 


EDWARD  was  gone !  The  first  sorrow  at  parting 
with  him  had  subsided,  and  affairs  in  the  household 
had  resumed  their  quiet  routine,  when  Mrs.  Courte- 
nay  received  a  letter  from  London  concerning  some 
business  of  her  husband's  which  required  her  pre- 
sence. As  she  should  be  at  the  house  of  an  intimate 
friend,  she  determined  to  take  Edith  with  her.  Ca- 
roline was  to  go  on  a  visit  to  Margaret  Granville  ; 
while  Jenny  was  to  be  the  guardian  of  Marion,  and 
to  devote  herself  entirely  to  her. 

The  Christmas  holidays  were  at  hand ;  and  Edith 
promised  herself  much  pleasure  in  passing  that  sea- 
son in  the  metropolis. 

The  preparations  were  soon  made,  and  Mrs.  Cour- 
tenay,  with  her  adopted  daughter,  established  in  Mrs. 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME. 

Harsdale's  beautiful  mansion  in  Portman  Square. 
To  feel  herself  actually  in  London  was  positive  de- 
light to  Edith. 

She  had  never  been  there  since  her  childhood, 
and  remembered  nothing  of  it  except  by  name. 

The  day  after  her  arrival  proved  a  fair  one ;  the 
streets,  for  a  wonder,  quite  passable.  Miss  Harsdale, 
with  a  young  gentleman  as  escort,  went,  with  Edith, 
sight-seeing.  The  first  visit  was  to  Westminster  Ab- 
bey. Edith's  feelings  of  previous  excitement  were 
subdued  into  hallowed  serenity  when  she  found  her- 
self within  its  sacred  walls,  —  the  last  resting-place  of 
the  royal  dead,  the  poet,  the  statesman,  and  the  hero. 
She  paused  thoughtfully  in  "  Poets'  Corner," — the 
monuments  of  Milton,  Spenser,  Gray,  her  beloved 
Goldsmith.  As  she  lingered  in  this  classical  region, 
as  it  may  be  called,  Mr.  Pembroke,  the  gentleman 
who  accompanied  her,  said,  "  Are  you  a  lover  of  Gray 
and  Goldsmith  ?  I  ask,  as  I  hope  to  find  sympathy 
with  my  own  admiration  of  them." 

"  I  am  exceedingly  fond  of  both,"  she  eagerly 
answered ;  "  their  poetry  was  among  my  school  exer- 
cises. The  '  Elegy  in  the  Country  Churchyard,'  and 
*  The  Deserted  Village,'  —  I  do  not  believe  familiarity 
would  ever  make  me  indifferent  to  their  beauties  : 
but  we  must  move  to  the  monuments  of  Elizabeth, 
and  Mary  Queen  of  Scots.  I  never  could  respect 
Elizabeth,  with  all  her  mighty  intellect,  her  stores 
of  knowledge,  &c.  I  know  how  much  her  govern- 
ment has  been  applauded ;  but  who  can  approve  her 


128  EDITH; 

private  feelings  ?  Poor  Mary !  I  never  can  think 
of  her  without  deep  pity  for  her  fate ;  though  I  never 
exalted  her  as  my  friends  do,  —  the  affair  of  Darnley's 
death,  her  marriage  with  Bothwell,  &c.  But  I  ought 
to  apologize,  sir,  for  these  remarks.  You  will,  in- 
deed, imagine  I  am  fresh  from  school :  do  pardon 
me." 

The  next  visit  was  to  the  Hall :  indeed,  many 
hours  were  spent  within  the  stupendous  abbey,  until 
every  thing  had  been  at  least  glanced  at.  The  next 
day  was  given  to  the  Tower ;  to  the-  survey  of  the 
beautiful  armor ;  the  regalia ;  the  Traitor's  Gate, 
through  which  so  many  sad  victims  had  passed. 

A  morning  was  spent  at  St.  Paul's,  several  days 
in  visiting  picture  galleries,  &c.,  until  the  "  lions  " 
of  London  had  been  all  seen. 

The  business  which  brought  Mrs.  Courtenay  was 
finished,  and  she  felt  anxious  to  be  at  home. 

Edith  had  enjoyed  a  great  deal ;  but  nothing  de- 
lighted her  so  much  as  the  attentions  her  mother  had 
received,  —  attentions  which  had  lent  sunshine  to  her 
prosperity,  but  whose  sympathizing  tenderness  had 
diffused  a  more  than  ordinary  light  over  adversity, 
depriving  it  of  much  of  its  bitterness. 

All  were  well  at  home,  —  the  children  delighted 
with  the  gifts  brought  by  Edith.  Mrs.  Harcourt 
and  Margaret  were  on  the  spot  to  welcome  them  j 
and,  although  after  an  absence  of  only  three  weeks, 
the  quiet  of  Milton  seemed  very  delightful. 

The  winter  passed  insensibly  away.     There  had 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  129 

been  letters  from  Mr.  Courtenay  announcing  Ed- 
ward's arrival;  his  happy  meeting  with  this  idolized 
boy  ;  his  courage,  undaunted  by  a  passage  across  the 
Atlantic  at  that  season.  Mr.  Courtenay  held  out 
hopes  of  visiting  England  in  the  summer ;  but,  if 
he  could  not  arrange  his  business,  his  family  must 
exercise  patience,  and  feel  all  would  be  for  the  best : 
he  should  strain  every  nerve  for  a  re-union ;  for  the 
separation  was  every  day  becoming  more  painful. 
He  wrote  long  letters  to  his  two  daughters,  enclosing 
others  from  Edward,  whose  graphic  description  of 
his  passage  out  was  so  interspersed  with  sea-terms 
that  it  was  utterly  incomprehensible ;  and,  as  Caro- 
line closed  hers,  she  said,  "  He  ought  to  have  sent  a 
nautical  dictionary  to  explain  all  the  parts  of  a  ship ; 
for  she  scarcely  knew  the  difference  between  the 
bowsprit  and  the  stern."  Edith,  as  the  children 
talked  of  these  letters  with  so  much  interest,  recalled 
the  hour  when  she  saw  the  "  Boadicea  "  pass  up  the 
Thames,  her  flags  at  half-mast,  bringing  her  father's 
remains  from  Halifax.  She  shuddered  over  the  re- 
collection, and  left  the  room  to  hide  from  Mrs. 
Courtenay  any  manifestation  of  feeling.  She  still 
cherished  the  memory  of  her  father  among  the  hid- 
den treasures  of  her  heart.  Not  a  day  passed  that 
he  did  not  mingle  with  her  thoughts ;  and  though 
she  tried  to  look  the  future  bravely  in  the  face,  in- 
tended to  meet  all  trials  patiently  and  humbly,  still 
that  her  father  was  no  longer  living,  that  he  was 
lost  to  her  for  ever  on  earth,  never  failed  to  inflict 
a  pang. 


130  EDITH; 


CHAPTER    XXL 


"  Fair-handed  Spring  unbosoms  every  grace  ; 
Throws  out  the  snowdrop  and  the  crocus  first ; 
The  daisy,  primrose,  violet  darkly  blue, 
And  polyanthus  of  unnumbered  dyes ; 
The  yellow  wall-flower,  stained  with  iron  brown ; 
And  lavish  stock,  that  scents  the  garden  round ; 
Anemones,  auriculas,  enriched 
With  shining  meal  o'er  all  their  velvet  leaves ; 
And  full  ranunculus,  of  glowing  red." 


THERE  were  times  when  Edith,  with  all  her  strength 
of  mind,  felt  deeply  the  reduction  of  her  fortune. 
She  often  saw  Mrs.  Courtenay  struggling  with 
means  scanty  when  compared  with  her  former  opu- 
lence. The  children  were  denied  indulgences  to 
which  they  had  been  accustomed  ;  and  while  her 
generous  nature  longed  to  be  enabled,  by  presents, 
to  make  some  amends  for  their  privations,  she  was 
compelled,  resolutely  to  deny  herself  this  gratifica- 
tion, as  justice  demanded  she  should  remunerate 
Mrs.  Courtenay  for  the  expense  of  her  maintenance. 
This  was  a  purely  business  transaction,  and  as  im- 
portant a  debt  to  be  paid  as  if  she  had  been  a  stran- 
ger in  the  family. 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  131 

She  would  often  sit  and  plan  for  the  future ;  re- 
volve in  her  mind  how  she  could  increase  her  income 
by  the  exercise  of  her  talents.  She  painted  and 
drew  very  finely  for  one  so  young.  Could  she  become 
a  teacher  ?  or,  what  was  better,  could  she  not  paint 
flowers  for  sale  ?  There  was  a  refinement  in  the 
latter  occupation  exactly  suited  to  her  taste  ;  and  she 
determined,  when  the  spring  was  farther  advanced, 
to  commence  copying  the  violets,  cowslips,  and  lovely 
primroses  which  still  grew  on  Windmill  Hill,  and 
endeavor  to  find  purchasers,  either  among  her 
friends,  or  the  fancy  shops  so  numerous  in  London. 
But  she  decided  to  keep  this  a  profound  secret  from 
all  but  Mary  Leslie.  With  the  thought  of  her  came 
the  delightful  idea  of  her  long  visit  in  May  at 
Glendale,  all  around  which  the  wild  treasures  of  the 
fields  were  so  abundant.  Filled  with  these  anticipa- 
tions, she  saw  the  spring  advancing  ;  she  watched 
the  opening  buds  ;  and,  when  the  snowdrops  ap- 
peared, she  eagerly  gathered  a  bunch,  and  never  felt 
a  happier  hour  than  when  she  saw  them  blooming 
beneath  her  pencil.  She  was  astonished  at  her  own 
success,  and,  filled  with  joy,  ran  to  Mrs.  Courtenay, 
exclaiming,  as  she  exultingly  held  them  up,  "  Dear 
mamma  !  have  I  not  succeeded  well  ?  These  are  my 
first  flowers  from  nature.  I  mean  to  paint  a  great 
many  this  summer."  Mrs.  Courtenay  could  not 
resist  the  beautiful  smile  which  irradiated  the  young 
enthusiast's  face,  and,  kissing  her  affectionately,  re- 
plied, "  Your  perseverance,  my  dear  child,  makes 


132  EDITH; 

every  thing  you  undertake  look  well ;  but,  with  the 
numerous  occupations  you  already  have,  how  will 
you  find  time  for  painting  flowers  ? " 

"  I  rise  so  early  in  warm  weather  that  I  shall  gain 
a  great  deal  in  that  way.  And  then,  mamma,  how 
delightful  the  occupation  !  When  I  am  at  Glendale, 
I  shall  be  out  before  the  dew  is  off"  the  grass,  to  bring 
home  my  treasures ;  and,  as  Matilda  will  be  from 
school,  we  shall  enjoy  so  much  while  Mary  is  direct- 
ing her  household  affairs." 

Mrs.  Courtenay  made  no  reply ;  for  she  thought 
next  summer,  or,  at  farthest,  next  autumn,  might 
bring  a  great  change  to  them  all,  and  it  was  best 
Edith  should  enjoy  all  she  could  in  anticipation : 
the  cloud  would  overshadow  her  full  soon  enough. 

In  spite  of  Mrs.  Courtenay's  general  firmness  of 
character,  her  feelings  at  times  would  have  vent. 
She  found  it  very  difficult  to  conceal  from  Edith  the 
anxieties  by  which  she  was  oppressed.  Her  hus- 
band's prolonged  absence  was  wearing  out  her  spirits  ; 
and  his  business  was  in  so  complicated  a  state,  that 
she  saw  but  little  prospect  of  his  return  to  England. 

The  only  relief  to  her  mind  seemed  the  idea  of 
joining  him  in  America ;  and  what  an  undertaking  it 
would  be  for  her  to  cross  the  Atlantic  without  him  ! 
These  feelings  made  her  long  for  the  time  of  the 
visit  to  Glendale,  that  she  might  often  see  Mrs.  Har- 
court,  and  talk  with  her  of  her  plans,  her  fears,  and 
her  anxieties.  But,  while  Edith  was  at  home,  she 
was  so  constantly  with  her,  so  unwearied  in  acts  of 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME. 


attentive  kindness,  so  quick  to  discern  a  shade  of 
thoughtfulness  upon  her  brow,  that  she  made  con- 
stant efforts  to  be  cheerful,  and  sedulously  avoided 
recurrence  to  the  subject  of  her  future,  lest  she 
should  disturb  the  tranquillity  of  this  cherished 
daughter. 


12 


134  EDITH 


CHAPTER    XXII. 


"  God  might  have  made  the  earth  bring  forth 

Enough  for  great  and  small, 
The  oak-tree  and  the  cedar-tree, 
Without  a  flower  at  all. 

"  Our  outward  life  requires  them  not : 

Then  wherefore  had  they  birth  ? 
To  minister  delight  to  man, 
To  beautify  the  earth." 


IN  about  a  fortnight,  the  spring  bloomed  in  great 
loveliness ;  the  early  anemones  were  in  perfection. 
Edith  was  in  a  revery  of  enjoyment,  painting  a 
bunch  of  these  sweet  flowers,  when  she  was  recalled 
suddenly  to  consciousness  by  the  noise  of  wheels. 
The  sound  ceased  :  she  looked  up  from  her  painting, 
and  saw  Mary  Leslie  stepping  from  the  carriage. 
She  ran  joyfully  to  meet  and  welcome  her  ;  for  they 
had  not  met  since  Mr.  Leslie's  visit  in  Scotland. 

Mary's  first  inquiry  was  if  Edith  was  ready  to  go 
to  Glendale. 

"  Not  to-day,  surely/*  said  Edith. 

"  I  shall  not  insist  on  your  return  with  me  ;  but 
my  father  talks  of  going  to  London,  to  be  absent  a 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  135 

short  time.  I  shall  send  to-morrow  for  Matilda,  and 
you  must  be  ready  the  next  day.  While  he  is  gone, 
I  shall  need  you  both  so  much.  Arthur,  too,  is  at 
home.  Now,  don't  blush,  Edith.  He  has  planned 
so  many  delightful  rides,  walks,  and  drives ;  and 
then  the  country  is  looking  so  exquisitely  lovely. 
The  hedges  will  soon  be  in  bloom  ;  the  violets  are 
already  out ;  and  every  thing  so  fresh,  and  so  fra- 
grant too  !  " 

Edith's  heart  beat  high  at  the  prospect  before  her ; 
but  then  came  a  vision  of  her  mother,  looking  so 
pale  and  dejected,  she  felt  it  would  be  ungrateful  to 
leave  her.  But,  when  Mary  talked  to  Mrs.  Cour- 
tenay,  she  was  struck  with  the  earnestness  with  which 
she  urged  Edith's  departure.  She  spoke  of  her  assi- 
duous attention  to  painting  as  if  she  dreaded  its  effect 
upon  her  health,  and  felt  the  change  of  air,  and  the 
society  of  more  cheerful  people,  would  benefit  her 
in  all  ways.  It  was  decided  she  should  go  on  the 
day  appointed. 

Edith's  habitual  neatness,  and  love  of  order,  left 
little  to  be  done  in  the  way  of  preparation  for  a  visit ; 
and,  when  the  carriage  arrived,  she  took  an  affection- 
ate leave  of  her  mother,  who  had  never  seemed 
so  dear  to  her,  —  embraced  the  children  tenderly. 
Marion  said,  as  she  clung  to  her,  "  Don't  stay  a  great 
while,  sister  :  it  is  very  dull  when  you  are  away." 
She  promised  to  return  as  soon  as  her  friends  would 
spare  her,  and,  in  a  few  minutes,  was  on  the  road  to 
Glendale.  Within  a  mile  of  the  house,  near  a  rus- 


136  EDITH; 

tic  bridge,  —  always  a  favorite  resort  spot  with  Edith, 
—  she  saw  a  gentleman  leaning  over  its  rude  railing. 
She  knew  it  was  Arthur.  She  could  not  help  feel- 
ing pleased  to  have  him  thus  kindly  welcome  her, 
as  he  came  forward  with  his  sunny  smile  and  ex- 
tended hand.  At  the  moment  she  was  about  to 
thank  him,  Matilda  sprang  from  behind  a  hedge, 
laughing,  as  she  said,  "  Arthur  and  I  were  deter- 
mined to  surprise  you.  John,  let  down  the  steps  !  " 
In  another  minute,  they  were  rapidly  driving  to- 
wards the  house,  in  high  spirits. 

Mary  was  at  the  hall-door ;  and  never  did  a 
brighter,  happier  group  assemble  than  Edith  and 
her  three  friends. 

Mr.  Leslie  was  often  so  cold  and  stately,  that  she 
could  not  help  being  glad  he  was  absent. 

The  days  at  Glendale  passed  so  cheerfully  and  so 
rationally,  Edith  seemed  to  feel  her  happiness  had 
never  been  so  great.  She  heard  frequently  from  her 
mother,  who  seemed  tranquilly  happy.  She  often 
rode  with  Mary  and  Matilda,  accompanied  by  Arthur, 
on  horseback.  Sometimes  they  passed  the  morning 
in  gathering  wild  flowers,  or  took  their  work  into  the 
woods,  while  Arthur,  stretched  on  a  rustic  seat  or 
lounging  carelessly  on  the  greensward,  read  to 
them.  In  the  midst  of  these  rural  enjoyments,  the 
painting  was  not  neglected.  A  number  of  beautiful 
flowers  had  been  copied  and  arranged  in  Edith's  port- 
folio. Her  friends  told  her  they  rivalled  nature  in 
their  exquisite  tints.  She  had  mentioned  to  Mary 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME. 

her  desire  to  increase  her  small  income,  for  Mrs. 
Courtenay's  sake,  and  the  latter  highly  commended 
her  independent  spirit ;  for,  in  one  accustomed  as 
she  had  been  to  live  in  the  midst  of  luxury,  she  felt 
these  efforts  were  deserving  of  all  praise. 

Cheerful  as  Edith's  nature  was,  there  were  hours 
when  she  felt  so  fatigued  by  her  assiduity  in  paint- 
ing, that  her  spirits  faltered,  and  she  looked  almost 
ill.  Her  bright  smile  was  not  as  often  seen,  her 
elastic  figure  was  not  as  firm  or  vigorous  ;  and 
Mary,  for  a  time,  expressly  forbade  her  touching  a 
paint-brush,  as  she  saw  the  inroads  made  by  her 
close  application.  After  resting  a  week  or  two,  she 
rallied,  and  looked  more  like  her  former  self.  Mary 
said  to  her  one  day,  "  Edith,  you  will  be  seventeen 
before  a  great  while  :  what  shall  you  do  on  your 
birthday  ?  " 

"  I  shall  hope  to  be  very  quietly  happy,  as  I  al- 
ways am  here.  I  am  not  fond  of  celebrating  birth- 
days, as  it  is  called.  I  am  now  growing  old  enough 
to  be  thoughtful.  Sixteen  once  seemed  a  beautiful 
era  in  life  ;  but  you  know,  dear  Mary,  I  have  had 
cares  beyond  my  years,  and  causes  for  reflection  in 
mamma's  altered  circumstances.  I  cannot  help  sad 
thoughts  for  her,  even  when  I  seem  the  gayest.  You 
know  she  is  every  thing  to  me." 

"  Every  thing  ?  "  said  Arthur.  "  Do  you  admit 
no  other  claims  on  your  affections  ?  Are  we  nothing 
to  you  ?  " 

The  tears  stood  in  her  eyes,  the  color  faded  from 
12* 


138  EDM-H; 

her  cheek,  as  she  looked  at  him  and  said,  "  You 
must  have  understood  me,  Arthur.  Next  to  mam- 
ma, you  are  my  dearest  friends.  I  have  neither 
brother  nor  sister  :  what  should  I  be  but  for  mamma 
and  this  little  circle  ?  " 

Arthur  was  shocked  to  perceive  how  he  had 
touched  her  feelings  ;  and,  taking  her  hand,  he  said, 
affectionately,  — 

"  You  shall  never  need  a  brother,  Edith,  while  I 
have  life  and  health.  Do  forgive  my  thoughtless 
speech  !  " 

She  smiled  upon  him  as  she  released  her  hand 
from  his  grasp,  and  her  face  soon  again  beamed  with 
its  usual  brightness ;  but  in  her  heart  was  a  feeling 
she  could  not  define,  and  which  agitated  her  for 
hours  after  she  had  left  the  parlor  and  sought  her 
own  room. 

Mr.  Leslie  had  returned,  and  was  deeply  engaged 
in  the  business  connected  with  his  estate.  Matilda 
had  gone  back  to  school;  and,  ere  long,  Arthur's 
college  vacation  would  end,  and  he  would  be  in 
Cambridge.  Edith  thought  much  of  Mrs.  Courte- 
nay,  and  felt  she  ought  to  be  at  home ;  but  Mary 
would  not  listen  to  any  suggestions  of  the  kind,  and, 
indeed,  overruled  all  that  was  said  on  the  subject. 

Edith  had,  by  her  engaging  sweetness,  the  gentle 
and  lady-like  dignity  which  characterized  her  con- 
duct, in  twined  herself  so  closely  round  her  heart, 
that  she  felt  she  could  not  yet  relinquish  the  enjoy- 
ment of  her  presence. 


OK,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  139 


CHAPTER    XXIII. 


"  For  my  sake  wear  this : 
It  is  a  manacle  of  love.    I'll  place  it 
Upon  this  fair  prisoner."  —  CTMBBLINE. 


THE  morning  on  which  Edith  completed  her  seven- 
teenth year  dawned  beautifully  on  creation ;  but, 
she  knew  not  why,  a  sense  of  sadness  was  upon  her, 
and  the  sun  seemed  to  shine  out  in  mockery  of  her 
disturbed  feelings.  She  started,  that  such  thoughts 
should  pass  through  her  mind,  and  resolved  on  that 
day  to  try,  for  the  future,  so  to  govern  her  feelings 
as  to  allow  nothing  so  irreverent  to  have  an  entrance. 
She  was  well,  surrounded  by  friends,  in  the  posses- 
sion of  all  her  faculties :  why,  then,  was  she  sad  ? 

As  she  entered  the  breakfast-room,  all  wished  her 
many  happy  returns  of  the  day :  every  one  seemed 
bright.  When  the  morning  meal  was  finished,  as 
she  was  going  for  her  drawing  materials,  Mary  fol- 
lowed her  into  the  hall,  and,  taking  her  hand,  gently 
clasped  round  the  slender  wrist  a  bracelet  of  her  hair, 
with  a  clasp  set  in  pearls.  Delighted  surprise  man- 
tled Edith's  cheeks  with  a  rosy  flush.  She  threw 


140  EDITH; 

her  arms  round  her  friend's  neck,  saying,  as  she 
rested  her  head  on  her  shoulder,  — 

"  How  shall  I  thank  you  for  this  precious  gift  ?  I 
cannot  tell  you,  in  language  sufficiently  earnest,  how 
dear  it  will  always  be  to  me.  A  thousand  thanks, 
dearest  Mary  !  " 

Mary  smilingly  said,  "  You  know,  Edith,  I  am 
not  given  to  quoting,  even  from  my  favorite  Shak- 
speare  ;  but  I  will  say,  as  Posthumus  said  to  Imo- 
gen, — 

'  For  my  sake  wear  this : 
It  is  a  manacle  of  lore.'  " 

The  grateful  girl  gave  her  assurances  of  never- 
ending  affection,  repeated  her  acknowledgments  of 
her  friend's  thoughtful  kindness,  and  tried,  for  the 
remainder  of  the  day,  to  be  cheerful;  but  her 
thoughts  reverted  to  her  father,  his  death  in  a  strange 
land,  Mr.  Courtenay's  protracted  absence,  the  loneli- 
ness of  her  mother  and  the  two  girls,  who  perhaps 
were  missing  her  more  and  more  every  day.  But 
Arthur  was  going  to  read  to  his  sister  and  herself 
from  Scott's  poem  of  "  Rokeby,"  which,  though 
published  several  years  before,  she  had  never  read ; 
and  this  cheered  her. 

They  spent  the  morning  in  the  library,  and  the 
hours  passed ;  for  hours  and  days  will  pass,  let  us 
feel  as  we  may.  Late  in  the  afternoon,  Edith  started 
for  a  walk,  hoping  the  beauty  of  the  weather  might 
dispel  the  feeling  of  sadness  which  had  hung  over 
her.  She  strolled  on,  unconscious  of  distance,  stop- 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  141 

ping  occasionally  to  gather  the  wild  geraniums  which 
grew  in  abundance  on  the  banks.  The  wild  roses, 
too,  were  just  opening,  —  those  sweet  harbingers  of 
summer.  As  she  paused  to  admire  the  peculiar  love- 
liness of  a  bush  which  was  forcing  its  branches 
through  a  hawthorn  hedge,  she  thought  of  the  spring- 
time of  her  life,  so  sadly  overcast :  its  summer  in 
perspective  seemed  to  offer  none  of  the  bright  hopes 
or  joyous  anticipations  so  natural  to  a  girl  just  seven- 
teen. The  tears  would  come  to  her  eyes :  they  fell 
slowly  over  her  cheeks.  Where  were  her  resolu- 
tions so  lately  formed  ?  She  roused  herself  imme- 
diately to  the  remembrance  of  the  Christian  lesson 
she  had  been  striving  to  teach  herself,  and,  dashing 
the  tears  from  her  cheeks,  looked  smilingly  at  the 
bright  heavens  above  her,  and  felt  her  trust  was 
unshaken.  She  turned  towards  the  house.  At  that 
moment,  Arthur  came  from  a  coppice,  the  other  side 
of  the  path,  and  suddenly  stopped  her  progress. 
Observing  traces  of  recent  sorrow  in  her  countenance, 
he  looked  anxiously  at  her,  and  said,  — 

"  Edith,  why  do  I  see  you  thus  ?  Are  you  un- 
happy ?  Do  you  feel  your  separation  from  Mrs. 
Courtenay  a  greater  trial  than  you  expected?  Is 
there  any  diminution  in  Mary's  tenderness  towards 
you  ?  What  is  the  matter  ?  " 

He  asked  these  questions  so  rapidly,  Edith  had 
no  time  for  reply.  When  he  paused,  she  eagerly 
said,  "  To  your  hurried  inquiries,  Arthur,  I  can 
readily  answer.  I  have  no  recent  cause  for  dejec- 


EDITH; 

tion.  Your  sister's  affection  is  unabated.  You 
know,  at  times  I  am  disposed  to  indulge  regrets  for 
the  past ;  I  cannot  yet  wholly  overcome  them ;  but  I 
do  make  great  efforts  to  be  cheerful.  It  has  been  my 
earnest  prayer,  ever  since  the  loss  of  my  fortune,  that 
God  would  enable  me  to  bear  the  change  patiently. 
I  feel  I  can  triumph  over  many  obstacles,  that  I 
can  arrive  at  some  degree  of  eminence,  if  I  put  into 
action  all  my  capabilities ;  and,  at  the  moment  you 
appeared,  I  was  trying  to  think  of  some  plan.  But  no 
matter ;  this  is  my  birthday,  and  I  am  an  ungrateful 
girl  to  have  even  a  cloud  on  my  brow.  Why  are 
you  pulling  those  buds  from  that  lovely  bush,  and 
preventing  my  enjoyment  of  watching  their  expan- 
sion from  day  to  day  ?  You  cannot  love  flowers  as 
I  do." 

Arthur  turned  his  dark  hazel  eyes  towards  Edith's 
face.  A  smile  of  ineffable  brightness  was  on  his 
lips,  which  irradiated  his  whole  countenance.  She 
blushed,  she  knew  not  why.  He  held  a  bunch  of 
the  rosebuds  towards  her,  and,  as  she  received  it, 
observed  every  thorn  had  been  removed. 

"  It  is  thus,  Edith,"  he  gently  said,  "  I  would 
willingly  remove  from  your  path  eveiy  cause  for 
disquietude,  and  brighten  it  with  the  sunshine  of 
hope  and  happiness.  My  love  for  you  has  been  the 
dream  of  my  boyhood,  the  joy  of  my  youth,  and  I 
confidently  hope  may  be  the  comfort  of  my  maturity. 
It  is  no  romance,  Edith ;  but  a  deep  and  earnest  feel- 
ing, which  time  will  only  strengthen.  May  this 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  143 

evening's  sun  witness  the  truth  of  my  asseverations  ! 
may  it  witness  the  sincerity  of  my  affections  ! "  At 
that  moment,  he  drew  from  his  pocket-book  a  ring, 
which  he  placed  on  her  finger  ;  and,  ere  Edith  had 
time  to  recover  from  her  confusion  and  agitation,  he 
darted  into  a  path  through  a  grove,  and  disappeared. 
She  stood  transfixed,  gazed  on  the  ring,  —  a  single 
diamond  in  a  circlet  of  gold.  She  turned  from  it  to 
the  thornless  rosebuds,  which  spoke  so  feelingly  of 
the  refinement  of  Arthur's  mind,  and,  pressing  them 
to  her  lips,  hurried  towards  the  house,  and,  on  enter- 
ing her  chamber,  petitioned  Heaven  to  aid  her  in  the 
path  of  duty.  What  a  change  had  the  day  wrought ! 
Could  it  indeed  be  true  that  Arthur  loved  her  ? 
could  he,  as  the  rosebuds  indicated,  wish  to  remove 
all  anxieties  from  her  mind  ?  Was  not  the  ring  an 
emblem  of  unbroken  faith? 

Hitherto,  her  feelings  towards  him  she  had  be- 
lieved to  be  those  of  an  affectionate  sister,  depending 
upon  the  fraternal  relation  as  a  bond  between  them. 

A  new  aspect  was  now  to  be  placed  on  their  inter- 
course. She  felt  the  freedom  of  their  conduct  was 
ended :  he  could  no  more  be  to  her  as  he  had  been. 
A  new  sensation  was  throbbing  at  her  heart,  a  host 
of  feelings  crowding  into  her  mind ;  and  she  was 
emphatically  bewildered  by  the  conflict.  But  there 
could  be,  she  well  knew,  no  happiness  for  her  inde- 
pendent of  a  strict  line'  of  duty.  She  hoped  to  be 
guarded  against  all  ambitious  aspirations,  all  wish 
even  to  encourage  feelings  which  might  be  inconsis- 


144  EDITH; 

tent  with  the  gratitude  she  owed  Arthur's  family. 
He  was  an  only  son,  and  she  doubted  not  his  father 
had  lofty  views  for  him.  But  she  was  unable  to 
think  collectedly ;  and,  to  calm  her  spirits,  she 
seated  herself  at  the  open  window  to  watch  the 
declining  day.  The  sun  was  approaching  the  hori- 
zon, partially  hiding  its  effulgence  by  purple  and  gold 
clouds,  which  floated  like  a  curtain  around  its  bright- 
ness, and  softening  the  distant  landscape  with  that 
neutral  tint  so  peculiarly  harmonizing  in  its  effect. 
Her  hand  rested  on  the  window,  clasping  the  rose- 
buds. A  sudden  burst  of  departing  sunlight  flashed 
on  the  ring  and  the  clasp  of  her  bracelet.  She  started 
to  a  sense  of  the  impropriety  of  keeping  the  former, 
at  least  until  sanctioned  by  her  mother's  approval 
and  Mary  Leslie's  knowledge.  How  could  she  tell 
them  without  confessing  her  feelings  also  ?  Her 
courage  fled  before  even  the  thought  of  it.  After 
a  few  minutes  spent  in  this  mental  conflict,  she  drew 
the  ring  from  her  finger,  and  placed  it  in  her  trinket- 
box,  put  some  of  the  rosebuds  in  a  vase,  and  with 
the  rest,  and  her  wild  geraniums,  in  her  hand, 
descended  to  the  parlor.  She  found  Mr.  Leslie  and 
Mary  at  the  tea-table,  wondering  at  the  delay  of  one 
usually  so  punctual.  It  was  hardly  possible  for  he 
to  throw  off  the  embarrassment  of  her  mind.  Her 
confused  manner  attracted  Mary's  attention :  she 
half-laughingly  said,  - — 

"  Edith,  you  appear  weary.     I  fear  you  have  had 
too  long  a  walk ;  or  you  may  have  met  with  some 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  145 

i 

adventures  in  your  lonely  stroll :  you  certainly  look 
as  if  you  had  something  to  tell." 

Edith  became  more  and  more  confused,  but  sum- 
moned courage  to  say,  — 

"You  know,  dear  Mary,  I  am  always  meeting 
with  incidents,  as  they  are  termed  in  novels :  but 
there  is  not  enough  of  the  heroine  in  me  to  call  forth 
much  of  modern  chivalry ;  nor  are  there  such  gal- 
lant knights  as  of  old,  who  risked  life,  and  all  but 
honor,  to  win  a  lady's  smile.  So  I  believe  I  nrnst 
be  content  to  receive  a  few  rosebuds,  the  first  of  the 
season,  instead  of  laurels  :  see  this  lovely  little  branch 
Arthur  gave  me  !  "  She  had  exerted  herself  to  the 
utmost  to  assume  this  playful  manner  ;  but  her  cheek 
became  suddenly  pale  as  she  finished. 

Mary's  eyes  told  that  she  knew  there  was  some- 
thing beyond  this  simple  offering  of  rosebuds ;  but 
she  inquired, — 

"  Where  is  Arthur?  Why  did  he  not  accom- 
pany you  home  ?  " 

"  He  did  not  go  with  me  to  walk :  I  met  him  just 
as  I  was  about  to  return.  I  saw  him  but  for  a  few 
minutes,  and  he  turned  into  the  path  through  the 
oak-grove." 

At  this  moment,  Arthur  appeared.  Mr.  Leslie 
looked  displeased,  but  spoke  not.  Mary  rallied 
him  on  his  sudden  love  of  botany,  so  beautifully 
illustrated  in  the  specimens  on  the  table. 

"  I  did  not  gather  the  geraniums,  only  the  rose- 
buds. Do  you  not  remember  this  is  Edith's  birth- 

13 


146  EDITH  ; 

day  ?  that  she  has  reached  the  age  calculated  to  call 
forth  all  the  poetry,  as  well  as  botany,  in  a  young 
man's  nature,  particularly  when  associated  with  one 
so  dear  to  our  little  family  ?  " 

He  glanced  at  Edith's  hand  as  it  rested  on  the  table. 
A  cloud  passed  over  his  countenance.  He  looked  at 
his  father,  whose  stern  expression  silenced  all  fur- 
ther remarks. 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  147 


CHAPTER     XXIV. 


"  Twilight's  soft  dews  steal  o'er  the  Tillage-green, 
With  magic  tints  to  harmonize  the  scene. 
Stilled  is  the  hum  that  through  the  hamlet  broke, 
When,  round  the  ruins  of  their  ancient  oak, 
The  peasants  flocked  to  hear  the  minstrel  play, 
And  games  and  carols  closed  the  day. 
All,  all,  are  fled ;  nor  mirth  nor  music  flows, 
To  chase  the  dreams  of  innocent  repose. 
All,  all,  are  fled;  yet  still  I  linger  here  ! 
What  pensive  sweets  this  silent  spot  endear!  " 


EDITH  rejoiced  to  find  herself  once  more  in  the  soli- 
tude of  her  own  room.  Her  feelings  had  been  tried 
to  the  utmost  during  the  day.  She  was  startled  by 
the  emotions  she  experienced  in  her  heart,  and  could 
not  help  regretting  that  Arthur,  by  his  unexpected 
declaration  and  his  gift,  had  exceeded  the  limits  of 
friendship.  She  seemed  to  have  passed,  within  a 
few  hours,  from  girlhood  to  womanhood ;  her  child- 
like feelings  gone,  and  a  future  opening  before  her, 
with  cares,  anxieties,  and  trials,  for  which  she  feared 
she  might  not  in  reality  be  prepared,  as  when  she 
boasted  she  "could  overcome  obstacles." 

Still  there  was   something   soothing  to  her  mind, 
cheering  to  her  orphan  state,  that  one  so  truly  good, 


148  EDITH; 

so  really  noble  in  intellect,  as  Arthur,  so  stern  in 
principle,  so  unwavering  in  duty,  had  indeed  chosen 
to  share  his  heart  with  the  yet  undisciplined  being 
she  knew  herself ;  but,  in  the  midst  of  these  feelings, 
rose  the  fear  that  Arthur's  father  would  frown  upon 
this  attachment  at  his  early  age.  She  was  poor.  It 
was  true,  she  had  at  times  encouraged  the  hope  that 
a  pecuniary  loan  her  father  had  generously  granted 
to  a  distant  relative  might  be  restored  to  her  ;  but 
this  was  a  sorry  foundation  for  even  a  small  fortune. 
She  dared  not  longer  indulge  in  any  feelings  con- 
nected with  the  events  of  the  day.  She  looked  out 
upon  the  calm  night :  the  song  even  of  the  nightin- 
gale had  ceased ;  not  a  leaf  moved ;  a  young  moon, 
with  her  pale,  silvery  light,  was  disappearing  behind 
the  woods ;  the  stars  shone  out  in  their  clear,  beauti- 
ful lustre ;  Nature  was  at  rest ;  and  Edith  closed 
her  window,  with  emotions  so  strangely  diversified 
as  hardly  to  believe  in  her  own  identity. 

The  morning  dawned  gloriously.  The  heavens, 
with  the  deep,  clear  blue,  had  but  a  few  light  clouds 
to  obscure  their  brightness ;  and  even  these  seemed 
to  turn  "  their  silver  lining  to  the  light."  The  sun 
shone  cheerily  on  the  landscape,  drawing  delicious 
perfume  from  the  flowers  which  bloomed  beneath 
her  windows ;  and  then  the  buds  of  yesterday  had 
opened,  and  stood  proudly  in  the  vase  in  which  she 
had  placed  them.  The  lambs  were  skipping  and 
jumping  about  on  the  green  banks,  while  their  dams 
were  resting  their  plump,  woolly  sides  on  the  young 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  149 

grass  ;  a  beautiful  peacock  was  strutting,  and  display- 
ing his  splendid  plumage,  looking  as  if  none  should 
be  admired  but  his  beautiful,  useless  self;  the  rooks 
were  building  ;  and  the  young  trout  were  springing 
at  the  early  flies  in  the  little  sparkling  brook  that 
ran  near  the  house ;  and  beyond  might  be  seen 
the  garden,  almost  gaudy  with  flowers,  —  daffodils, 
tulips,  the  double-flowering  almond,  hepaticas,  ge- 
raniums, &c.  In  the  distance  stood  the  village- 
church,  with  the  grassy  lane  which  led  to  it.  How 
Edith  gazed  on  all  this  accumulation  of  beauties  ! 
how  her  heart  expanded  as  she  contemplated  the 
loveliness  around  her !  Was  there  no  foreshadowing 
of  distant  lands,  —  cold,  bleak,  and  destitute  of  all 
these  sunny  influences  ? 

Soon  after  breakfast,  she  had  an  opportunity  of 
telling  Arthur  her  intention  of  writing  Mrs.  Courte- 
nay.  Her  nature,  so  open,  so  confiding,  recoiled 
from  any  thing  like  concealment ;  and  to  keep  his 
gift  of  the  ring  secretly  in  her  possession,  was,  in  her 
estimation,  a  violation  of  confidence  towards  her  best 
friend.  She  also  told  him  she  should  value  his 
birthday-gift  as  a  token  of  his  friendship  which  she 
hoped  never  to  forfeit ;  that,  should  her  mother  sanc- 
tion her  retaining  it,  she  intended  it  should  exer- 
cise talismanic  influence  over  her  future  conduct, 
checking  her  too  frequent  indulgence  in  vain  regrets, 
&c.  Arthur  smiled  at  her  ingenuous  relation  of  all 
she  meant  to  do,  approved  every  resolve,  and,  taking 

13* 


150  EDITH; 

her   hand   as    she  was    about    to    leave   the    room, 
said,  — 

"  Edith,  for  friendship,  I  hope  you  will,  in  future, 
use  the  word  affection ;  and  may  you,  my  dear  girl, 
always  preserve  the  open,  noble  nature  which  first 
taught  me  to  love  you  when  a  child !  " 

"  I  am  no  longer  one,"  she  replied,  releasing  her 
hand  ;  "  and  there  must  be  no  infringement  of  the 
respectful  tenderness  of  brother  and  sister.  I  am,  I 
hope,  too  truthful  to  deny  you  are  very  dear  to  me ; 
but  we  are  not  lovers.  Let  us  be  kindly  attentive 
to  each  other's  happiness  ;  but  let  our  intercourse  be 
that  of  friendship  only.  You  will  go,  I  hope,  and 
finish  the  morning  at  your  studies.  I  shall  soon  be 
so  absorbed  in  copying  some  of  your  rosebuds  for 
Mary  that  I  shall  forget  the  ring,  and  even  your- 
self." Arthur  shook  his  head  doubtingly,  and  they 
parted. 

The  letter  to  Mrs.  Courtenay  was  written,  though 
with  more  of  effort  than  Edith  expected.  She  was 
doubtful  how  her  mother  would  receive  her  avowal 
of  attachment  to  Arthur.  She  had  doubts,  too,  of 
the  propriety  of  encouraging  such  sentiments  towards 
one  who  was  to  fill  an  important  place  in  society. 
It  was  very  difficult  to  write  as  she  had  formerly 
done :  to  raise  the  veil  from  her  heart  brought  min- 
gled joy  and  sadness.  She  had  hitherto  treated 
Arthur  without  the  least  restraint :  she  had  never 
known  any  cause  for  concealing  her  feelings.  There 
was,  in  fact,  nothing  in  her  pure  and  noble  nature 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  151 

to  be  disguised  ;  and  she  was  sure  he  was  all  manli- 
ness, and  his  heart  "  Truth's  own  throne."  But 
every  thing  was  changed  ;  and  she  felt  a  degree  of 
reserve  stealing  into  her  heart,  which  she  feared 
would  oblige  her  to  change  her  deportment,  and  no 
longer  be  the  playful  girl  who  always  appealed  to 
him  as  to  a  safe  counsellor. 

Arthur,  too,  was  so  rigid  in  his  ideas  of  decorum  ! 
How  even  her  slight  faults  would  trouble  him ! 
He  would  regard  her,  perhaps,  with  very  different 
eyes  from  the  indulgent  ones  of  former  days ;  but 
she  could  try  to  keep  so  guarded  and  vigilant  a  watch 
over  her  conduct  as  to  save  him  from  many  uncom- 
fortable feelings.  She  should  now  be  stimulated  to 
extra  exertion,  from  the  knowledge  he  had  placed 
his  happiness  in  her  hands. 

In  a  few  days  a  letter  arrived  from  Mrs.  Courte- 
nay,  in  which  she  addressed  Edith  with  great  tender- 
ness, but  deemed  it  necessary  to  speak  with  plainness 
on  the  important  announcement  she  had  made.  She 
wrote :  — 

"  Your  letter  has,  indeed,  caused  me  much  anxiety,  and  subject 
for  reflection ;  and,  while  I  respect  the  beautiful  ingenuousness 
with  which  you  describe  your  feelings,  I  regret  most  sincerely  the 
bestowment  of  your  affections  thus  early  in  life.  Are  you  able, 
Edith,  to  judge,  at  seventeen,  what  will  be  for  your  happiness  ? 
You  know  nothing  of  the  world ;  and  thus  suddenly  to  enter  on 
its  cares  and  anxieties,  is,  in  my  mind,  to  be  deeply  lamented.  I 
say  anxieties ;  for  what  girl,  whose  affections  are  another's,  can  be 
without  them?  Every  thing  connected  in  future  with  Arthur 
Leslie's  happiness,  health,  prosperity,  is  to  be  interwoven  with 


EDITH; 

every  thought.  And,  allowing  all  goes  on  well  for  a  time, 
that  you  are  happy  in  each  other's  attachment,  you  must  soon 
separate :  then  will  begin  the  hours  of  sadness,  more  numerous 
far  than  you  imagine.  A  separation  from  one  we  love  can  never 
be  without  sorrow.  A  host  of  unexpected  cares  arise ;  and  to 
bear  them  cheerfully,  or  even  submissively,  is  no  ordinary  task. 
You  will  wonder  why  I  write  this,  as  if  to  throw  a  shadow  on  your 
happiness ;  but,  my  sweet  girl,  I  have  my  reasons,  and  I  wish  to 
prepare  you  for  some  trials  you  might  not  have  anticipated.  But 
of  this  you  may  be  assured :  I  have  confidence,  both  in  Arthur  and 
yourself,  that  you  will  see  the  justice  and  common  sense  of  my 
remarks,  nor  let  them  diminish  your  affection  for  me.  The  ring, 
your  birthday-gift,  I  can  see  no  impropriety  in  retaining,  provided 
you  have  the  approval  of  Miss  Leslie.  You  mean  '  it  shall  exer- 
cise talismanic  power  over  your  conduct.'  This  is  not  the  high- 
est motive  of  action,  Edith :  but  let  it  be  aided  in  its  operation  by 
your  strength  of  principle  and  religious  sense ;  and  I  hope  it  may 
indeed  produce  as  good  an  effect  as  in  the  fairy  tale.  I  have  no 
fears,  my  child. 

"  My  next  suggestion  to  you  is  to  return  to  Milton.  I  am 
very  anxious  to  see  you.  Mr.  Courtenay's  letters  from  the  United 
States  are  any  thing  but  cheerful ;  and  I  am  now  longing  to  be 
enlivened  by  your  presence.  As  my  two  daughters  are  absent  all 
day,  I  am  often  lonely,  and,  I  regret  to  say,  dejected." 


Edith  closed  her  mother's  letter  with  a  feeling  of 
disappointment.  There  was  an  evident  attempt  to 
conceal  something  which  affected  Mrs.  Courtenay's 
spirits :  her  own  sunk  under  a  foreboding  of  ill. 
She  hesitated  whether  to  show  it  to  Arthur,  or  await 
his  inquiries :  she  dreaded  to  disturb  his  happiness. 
While  she  was  debating  what  to  do,  he  entered  the 
parlor,  and  asked  her  to  ride  on  horseback.  "  As  the 


OR,    THE    LIGHT   OF    HOME.  153 

weather  is  delightful,"  said  he,  "  it  will  do  you  good 
to  inhale  the  invigorating  air." 

The  horses  were  brought  round,  and  they  were 
soon  cantering  cheerfully  over  the  beautiful  road 
which  led  towards  the  village.  Edith  had  been  early 
taught  to  ride,  and  sat  a  horse  very  gracefully.  She 
never  looked  so  well  as  in  her  black-beaver  hat,  with 
its  drooping  feather,  and  her  well-fitting  green  riding- 
dress.  Arthur,  too,  was  a  faultless  horseman  :  his 
figure,  so  manly  yet  so  graceful,  Avas  just  fitted  for  a 
cavalry  officer.  And  many  were  the  kind  looks 
bestowed  by  the  cottagers  on  the  youthful  pair  as 
they  passed ;  Arthur  lifting  his  hat  so  courteously  to 
the  women,  and  Edith  gently  bowing  her  head  to  all 
whom  she  recognized.  There  was  more  than  usual 
deference  this  morning  in  Arthur's  deportment ;  and 
Edith  felt,  more  deeply  than  ever,  how  much  there 
was  in  him  to  respect,  as  well  as  love,  for  his  refine- 
ment and  delicacy.  Yet  on  that  very  morning^  and 
with  such  feelings,  she  gave  a  striking  instance  of 
inconsistency,  to  use  the  mildest  word.  But,  we 
repeat,  she  was  not  faultless.  In  passing  a  gentle- 
man's house  on  the  road,  she  attempted  a  display  of 
her  horsemanship  any  thing  but  agreeable  to  Arthur. 
There  was  a  party  on  the  lawn,  who  appeared  to 
have  assembled  for  a  breakfast  a  la  fourchette.  When 
opposite  the  gate  fronting  the  party,  Edith  touched 
her  curb-rein,  which  her  spirited  horse  would  never 
bear.  He  reared,  plunged,  quite  in  warlike  style. 
Arthur  became  anxious,  although  he  knew  the  ani- 


154  EDITH; 

mal  was  too  well  trained  to  be  likely  to  throw  his 
rider.  Yet  she  had  been  told  never  to  pull  the 
curb  unless  Spanker  appeared  disposed  to  gallop, 
and  then  very  cautiously.  One  of  the  gentlemen  ran 
with  offers  of  service.  Arthur,  with  more  of  haughti- 
ness than  he  had  ever  before  displayed,  said,  "I 
believe  I  am  fully  equal  to  the  care  of  this  young 
lady." 

"  No  doubt,  sir,"  replied  he,  "  if  your  own  horse 
do  not  prove  restive,  which  he  seems  a  little  disposed 
to  be." 

"In  that  case,  I  can  take  care  of  both,  perhaps. 
However,  I  do  not  mean  to  forget  my  courtesy :  I 
thank  you,  sir." 

Edith  looked  at  Arthur  with  some  alarm :  both 
herself  and  the  horse  were  quiet  now.  His  brow 
was  clouded,  his  lips  compressed ;  but  he  spoke  not 
a  word.  Shortly  he  recovered  the  balance  of  his 
temper :  he  was  perfectly  calm  as  he  said,  "  How 
could  you  make  yourself  so  conspicuous,  Edith,  by 
doing  as  you  have  ?  " 

She  was  shocked  by  the  question :  she  had  never 
seen  him  displeased  with  her  before.  How  could 
she,  by  her  folly,  bear  the  idea  of  having  ruffled  a 
temper  generally  so  serene  ?  She  was  overcome, 
and  ingenuously  confessed  to  the  charge  of  being  for 
the  moment  forgetful  of  his  feelings,  in  becoming 
what  he  called  "  conspicuous,"  by  her  unnecessary 
display  of  horsemanship.  "  I  am  at  times  thought- 
less, Arthur,  but  not  wilful." 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  155 

He  was  touched  by  her  candor,  and,  placing  his 
hand  on  her  horse's  neck,  patted  him,  and  good- 
humoredly  thanked  him  for  not  throwing  his  rider. 

When  they  arrived  at  home,  as  Edith  was  lifted 
from  the  saddle,  it  was  with  even  a  gentler  manner 
than  usual.  She  felt  his  tenderness,  and  blushed  to 
think  she  could  have  done  aught  that  might  lessen 
his  happiness,  trifling  though  it  might  be.  He  looked 
archly  at  her  as  she  was  entering  the  hall :  — 

"  Are  you  fatigued,  Edith  ?  " 

"  No,  indeed  !  "  she  said  :  "  I  could  live  on  horse- 
back ;  there  is  no  enjoyment  to  me  like  it." 

"  Except  when  you  are  reproved." 

"  Say  no  more,  Arthur.  I  feel  every  hour  how 
much  discipline  I  need.  How  vain  is  my  boasting, 
when  I  talk  of  what  I  can  accomplish,  and  yet  do  so 
little  for  my  own  improvement !  " 

"  You  are  but  sixteen  :  I  have  hopes  of  you  yet." 
And,  holding  out  his  hand  in  token  of  peace,  they 
separated  until  dinner. 

No  questions  had  been  asked  of  Mrs.  Courtenay's 
letter,  no  allusion  made  to  it ;  and  Edith  decided  to 
speak  to  Mary  on  the  subject  nearest  her  heart,  ere 
she  exchanged  a  word  with  Arthur. 


156  EDITH; 


CHAPTER    XXV. 


" '  And  is  he  gone?  '    On  sudden  solitude 
How  oft  that  fearful  question  will  intrude ! 
Twas  but  an  instant  past,  and  here  he  stood ! 
And  now  " CORSAIR. 


THE  next  morning  after  the  ride  on  horseback,  Edith 
thought  she  had  braced  her  mind  to  sufficient  strength 
to  speak  of  the  ring,  and  entered  the  parlor,  where 
Mary,  she  knew,  was  drawing.  She  looked  very 
pale,  and  trembled  excessively.  Mary  raised  her 
head,  saying,  "  Edith,  I  know  why  you  are  thus 
agitated ;  and,  to  save  you  more  excitement,  1  will 
say,  I  know  all.  Arthur  felt  it  his  duty  to  open  his 
heart  to  me,  as  to  a  sister  who  has  been  almost  a 
mother  to  him.  I  am  not  prepared  to  say  I  rejoice 
in  this  attachment,  though  I  might  have  foreseen  it. 
You  are  both  so  young,  the  future  so  uncertain,  that 
I  almost  grieve  at  it.  My  brother's  studies  are  yet 
unfinished  ;  he  has  not  decided  on  any  profession  ; 
and  you  are  hardly  old  enough  to  know  your  own 
feelings.  You  certainly  need  not  be  told  how  well 
I  love  you  both :  still,  I  cannot  conceal  my  regret- 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  157 

Years  must  pass  ere  you  could  think  of  marrying. 
Besides,  my  father,  with  many  excellent  qualities,  is, 
you  know,  very  stern.  He  calls  it  folly,  and  desires 
nothing  may  be  said  about  it."  She  paused.  Edith's 
proud  spirit  was  roused.  She  was  struck  with  the 
calculating  nature  of  Mary's  speech  ;  she  could  not 
bear  it.  Her  bosom  heaved  with  almost  convulsive 
emotion  as  she  at  length  said,  — 

"  Does  Mr.  Leslie  think  me  unworthy  his  son  ? 
I  am  as  well  born,  as  well  educated  :  why,  then,  am 
I  rejected,  scorned  ?  " 

"  Stop,  stop !  "  said  Mary,  very  quickly.  "  No 
one,  my  dear  Edith,  ever  hinted  at  your  being  scorned 
or  rejected.  My  father  calls  all  love-affairs  romance, 
nonsense,  forgetting  how  he  once  felt.  There  is, 
there  can  be,  no  objection  to  you.  I  would  not  alter 
you,  Edith,  if  I  could ;  for  your  little  flashes  of — 
temper,  shall  I  call  them  ?  —  I  often  think,  give  an 
additional  charm,  as  they  are  always  so  unexpected. 
I  am  very  willing  you  should  love  Arthur,  and  that 
he  should  love  you.  I  hope,  in  time,  you  may  be 
united ;  but,  at  present,  be  to  each  other  as  you 
have  been.  Place  the  ring  on  your  finger;  and 
may  it  exercise  the  influence  over  you  which  you 
told  Arthur  it  should  !  He  deserves  you  should  do 
all  in  your  power  for  his  happiness."  She  pressed 
the  weeping  girl  in  her  arms,  and  the  conversation 
was  not  renewed. 

In  a  few  days,  Edith  spoke  of  returning  to  Milton. 
She  had  staid  beyond  her  original  intention,  and 

14 


158  EDITH; 

thought  it  best,  situated  as  she  was  with  regard  to 
Arthur,  to  be  at  home.  Mary  regretted  parting  with 
her,  but  felt  she  acted  with  the  delicacy  expected  of 
her,  and  could  not  conscientiously  urge  her  to  re- 
main. As  to  Mr.  Leslie,  he  preserved  his  stoical 
indifference ;  though  probably  he  was  glad  to  hear 
she  was  going,  as  "  he  hated  scenes,"  as  he  used  to 
say,  "particularly  love-passages." 

The  day  of  departure  came.  Edith  was  nearly 
ready,  and  entered  the  library  to  collect  her  drawing 
materials.  She  saw  Arthur  with  one  of  her  little 
sketches  in  his  hand,  looking  earnestly  at  it.  She 
advanced  to  the  table,  began  taking  up  her  pencils, 
&c.,  when  he  said,  "  May  I  keep  this  outline  of  the 
rosebuds  ? "  The  memory  of  that  afternoon  when 
he  gave  them,  her  recent  conversation  with  his  sister, 
rushed  to  her  heart.  She  laid  her  head  on  the  table, 
and  burst  into  tears.  Arthur,  affected  by  her  emo- 
tion, said,  tenderly,  "  My  dear  Edith4  are  you  wise 
thus  to  yield  to  your  feelings  ?  What  fresh  cause 
for  disquietude?  Tell  me  all.  Are  you  not  my 
own,  my  affianced  ?  I  have  now  a  right  to  share 
all  your  griefs."  She  raised  her  head  to  meet  his 
affectionate  glance,  thanking  him  by  her  grateful 
looks  for  his  sympathy,  but  was  unable  to  reply. 

"  Well,  Edith,  I  intend  to  visit  Milton  before  I 
return  to  Cambridge.  I  shall  write  you  often  ;  and, 
if  any  thing  has  occurred  to  disturb  you,  I  shall  in 
time  know  it,  I  am  sure.  Remember  this,  my  dear 
Edith,  that  I  shall  yield  not  one  iota  of  my  inde- 


OR,    THE   LIGHT    OF    HOME.  159 

pendence  to  unnecessary  or  unreasonable  restrictions 
imposed  by  my  father."  He  left  the  room  ;  and  her 
lips  had  refused  to  utter  one  word. 

The  carriage  came  to  the  door.  Mary  and  Mr. 
Leslie  stood  in  the  hall  to  say  good-by :  the  former 
kissed  her  fondly ;  the  latter  extended  his  hand ; 
but  "  do  not  forget  us  "  was  not  said  this  time. 

As  the  coachman  was  about  to  put  up  the  steps, 
Arthur  suddenly  prevented  him  ;  and,  ere  Edith 
was  aware  of  what  he  was  about  to  do,  he  seated 
himself  at  her  side,  ordered  the  coachman  to  drive 
on,  and  then  said,  — 

"  I  mean  to  accompany  you  a  mile  or  two.  My 
horse  has  been  gone  some  time,  and  will  be  waiting 
for  me  at  the  bridge." 

"  How  thoughtfully  kind  you  always  are,  Arthur  ! 
And  I  am  so  glad  to  be  able  to  tell  you  how  deeply 
I  feel  all  you  said  to  me  in  the  library !  I  could  not 
speak  then,  for  my  heart  was  too  full :  but  you 
know  I  do  appreciate  your  affection ;  and  I  will 
endeavor  to  make  myself  worthy  of  it.  Here  is  the 
talisman  ;  "  and,  drawing  off  her  glove,  she  displayed 
the  ring.  He  clasped  the  slender  fingers  in  his, 
and  talked  cheerfully  of  days  to  come.  The  bridge 
was  in  sight ;  the  man  appeared  with  the  horse. 
Arthur  pressed  the  hand  he  held  affectionately,  and, 
opening  the  carriage,  which  stopped  at  the  bridge, 
jumped  out,  mounted  his  horse,  and,  raising  his  hat 
in  token  of  farewell,  was  soon  out  of  sight.  Some 
time  elapsed  ere  Edith  uncovered  her  face,  which 


160  EDITH; 

she  had  hidden  with  her  hands  when  she  saw  the 
last  look  which  Arthur  turned  towards  her.  She 
was  alone,  with  only  the  recollection  of  him  to  cheer 
her ;  and  yet  it  was  so  pleasant  to  think  she  was  the 
object  of  his  best  affections,  and  that  she  had  an- 
other besides  herself  upon  whom  she  could  lean  !  If 
trouble  should  come,  he  would  cheer  her  in  the  dark 
hours ;  and,  if  happiness  were  before  them,  he 
would  share  all  with  her.  She  indulged  in  building 
a  few  castles  in  the  air,  until  a  distant  peal  of  thun- 
der aroused  her  to  something  like  fear  that  the 
horses  might  start.  But  the  storm  passed  off  by  the 
river ;  and  she  soon  saw  the  bright  sun  again,  and 
the  raindrops  glistening  like  diamonds  on  trees  and 
shrubs.  The  Thames,  too,  as  the  carriage  skirted 
along  its  banks,  seemed  more  than  usually  crowded 
with  ships.  The  dear  old  for!  !  —  there  it  was  in  all 
its  grandeur ;  and,  in  a  short  time,  she  was  safely  at 
home,  and  in  Mrs.  Courtenay's  fond  embrace.  The 
pallid  face  of  her  mother  seemed  to  strike  her  more 
forcibly  than  on  her  former  return  from  Glendale. 

"  Mamma,  you  are  ill,  I  know  !  "  was  her  sudden 
exclamation,  as  Mrs.  Courtenay  stood  before  her  in 
a  bright  light.  "  Why  have  I  not  been  informed  of 
it?" 

"  I  have  not  been  ill,  my  dear  child,  only  anxious  ; 
but,  now  you  have  returned,  I  mean  to  exercise 
more.  We  will  walk  together  into  the  country 
round  Milton ;  and  I  think,  in  a  few  weeks,  you 
will  see  restored  all  the  bloom  which  usually  belongs 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  161 

to  thirty- eight."  Edith  made  no  reply ;  but  she  felt, 
as  day  by  day  passed,  they  brought  but  little  amend- 
ment in  her  mother's  looks  ;  though  it  was  evident, 
for  her  children's  sakes,  she  made  every  effort  to 
keep  up  her  cheerfulness,  and  appear  in  better  health 
than  she  really  was.  Edith  determined  no  tempta- 
tion should  again  take  her  from  this  excellent  friend, 
except  for  a  day  or  two.  Perhaps  a  feeling  of  self- 
condemnation  was  in  her  heart,  as  she  remembered 
the  happiness  she  had  so  recently  enjoyed  at  Glen- 
dale  while  her  mother  was  so  lonely.  It  was  in  her 
power,  however,  now  to  devote  herself  to  her,  and, 
by  every-day  evidence  of  affection,  prove  how  strong 
she  felt  were  her  claims  on  her  gratitude.  She 
would  read  to  her,  walk  with  her,  and  often,  at  twi- 
light, sing  to  her  some  of  those  touching  melodies 
which  have  almost  the  enchanter's  power  of  soothing. 
Mrs.  Courtenay's  taste  in  music  was  so  like  her  own, 
that  she  knew  exactly  what  would  lead  her  mind 
from  dwelling  on  the  stern  discipline  of  every-day 
life,  and  turn  it  to  more  hopeful  views. 


14* 


162  EDITH 


CHAPTER    XXVI. 


1  Soon  as  the  morning  trembles  o'er  the  sky, 
And,  unpereeived,  unfolds  the  spreading  day , 
Before  the  ripened  field  the  reapers  stand 
In  fair  array,  each  by  the  lass  he  loves, 
To  bear  the  rougher  part,  and  mitigate, 
By  nameless  gentle  offices,  her  toil." 


Ix  a  short  time  after  Edith's  return,  she  received  a 
note  from  Henrietta  Baker,  of  whom  she  had  seen 
but  little  since  the  time  she  was  under  her  care, 
during  Emma's  illness,  some  years  before.  The 
note  contained  a  request  that  she  would  be  present 
at  her  wedding,  which  would  take  place  the  "follow- 
ing week.  Invitations  were  extended  to  Caroline, 
Marion,  and  Margaret  Granville.  They  were  all 
delighted  at  the  idea  of  a  wedding,  and  talked  of 
nothing  but  what  they  could  give  the  bride.  It 
was  at  length  decided  the  two  Courtenays  should 
present  her  with  a. handsome,  though  not  very  ex- 
pensive, Bible,  urging  to  give  "  their  own  money," 
which  they  had  been  saving  for  some  time.  Marga- 
ret was  to  go  with  them  ;  and,  when  the  morning 
dawned  in  brightness,  the  little  coterie  sat  off,  laugh- 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  163 

ing,  talking,  picking  flowers,  &c.  "  Sister,"  said 
Caroline,  "  what  have  you  in  that  box  you  carry  so 
carefully  ?  " 

"  Time  will  disclose,"  she  replied. 

They  travelled  on,  until,  Miss  Baker's  cottage  ap- 
pearing in  the  distance,  they  all  exclaimed,  "  We 
shall  soon  be  there  !  " 

They  found  many  of  the  neighbors  assembled  to 
attend  the  bride  to  church.  She  looked  very  pret- 
tily in  her  simple  white  dress  and  neat  straw  bonnet ; 
while  the  bridegroom,  a  fine-looking  young  farmer, 
seemed  the  very  embodiment  of  happiness.  The 
children  presented  the  sacred  volume,  which  was 
gratefully  and  reverently  received.  "This,"  said 
Henrietta,  "  will  cheer  us  in  sadness,  Robert ;  and 
teach  us  humility,  if  our  farm  prosper." 

They  soon  proceeded  to  church.  Just  as  the 
bride  entered  the  path  leading  to  the  church-door, 
the  little  girls  who  had  been  her  pupils  in  the  village 
school  came  forward,  and  scattered  flowers  from  bas- 
kets which  hung  on  their  arms.  Henrietta  turned 
very  pale  at  this  proof  of  their  regard,  though  her 
heart  beat  quick  with  pleasure.  The  bells  were 
ringing  out  a  merry  peal ;  and  the  birds,  as  if  not 
to  be  outdone,  added  their  music  to  the  joyous 
sounds.  The  ceremony  over,  the  party  returned  to 
a  rustic  collation  j  and,  when  the  bride  had  thrown 
aside  her  bonnet,  Edith  stepped  forward,  and,  after 
placing  a  wreath  of  orange-blossoms  and  white  roses 
on  her  head,  gave  her  a  beautifully  simple  gold 


164  EDITH; 

locket,  in  which  was   a   small  black  curl,  with   the 
initials  E.  D.  on  the  back.     She   softly  kissed  the 
fair  bride,  whispering,  "  How  well  do  I  remember 
all  your  kindness  to  me  when  very  young  !  "     Then 
came  Margaret's  turn  to  make  her  offering.     "  This 
is  from  grandmamma  and  me,  as  tokens  of  our  re- 
gard ;  "  and  she  opened  a  little  case,  and  presented 
a  silver  butter-knife  and  pair  of  sugar-tongs.     All 
were  delighted.     The  butter  was  cut  with  the  knife ; 
the  tongs  to  be  reserved  until  the  evening  meal.    The 
collation  over,  Edith  and  her  young  companions  pre- 
pared to   leave,  wishing  all  happiness  to  the  bride 
and    bridegroom.       As    they    walked    homewards, 
Edith's  thoughts  were  with  Arthur ;  and  how  did 
she  miss  the  friendly  arm  on  which  she  had,  of  late, 
so  often  leaned,  as  they  strolled  about  the  lovely  do- 
main of  Glendale  !    But  she  knew  he  was  where  duty 
called  him,  and  she  suppressed  the  rising  sigh.     She 
returned  to  her  mother  so  gratified  by  the  scene  of 
the  morning,  in  witnessing  the  happiness  of  her  hum- 
ble friends,  that  she  diffused  cheerfulness  into  Mrs. 
Courtenay's  mind,  which  gave  a  brighter  tone  to  her 
conversation    for    the   day.     It  had  now  become   a 
positive  duty  with  Edith  —  a  duty  which  she  per- 
formed   unwaveringly  —  to   try  by   every  effort   to 
divert  her  mother  from   dwelling  so  much  on  Mr. 
Courtenay's  prolonged  absence,  and  the  future  pro- 
spects of  her  children.     There  was  no  selfishness  in 
her  nature.     Her  home-duties  were  always  cheerful- 
ly performed.     She  never  alluded  to  the  luxuries 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  165 

which  had  disappeared  from  the  household  and  her 
own  wardrobe,  but  calmly  and  patiently  endured 
the  privation  of  what  she  once  deemed  indispensable. 

About  the  time  of  harvest,  Edith  went  for  a  day 
or  two  to  Glendale  :  she  was  unwilling  to  leave  Mrs. 
Courtenay  longer.  Arthur  was  absent :  but  he  had 
written  frequently  since  their  separation ;  was  in  good 
spirits  ;  and  she  was  contented  not  to  see  him,  pro- 
vided she  knew  he  was  well. 

The  "  harvest-home  "  was  celebrated  the  day  af- 
ter her  arrival.  Immense  tables  were  spread  in 
the  great  hall,  round  which  were  gathered  all  the 
tenantry  and  laborers  of  the  farm.  These  tables 
literally  groaned  beneath  the  piles  of  food.  Pre- 
eminent was  the  roast  beef  of  Old  England ;  then 
the  ale,  which  was  liberally  quaffed,  inciting  the 
relation  of  wild  stories,  and  the  enlivenment  of  song. 
At  the  close  of  the  dinner,  Mr.  Leslie,  his  daughters, 
and  Edith,  looked  in  upon  the  merry  party,  who  all 
rose  as  the  family  stood  at  the  hall-door.  "  Be 
seated,  my  friends,"  said  Mr.  Leslie,  laying  aside 
his  usually  frigid  manner.  "  I  bid  you  all  welcome  : 
much  happiness  to  you ! "  He  then  took  a  seat 
at  the  table  for  a  short  time.  The  men  filled  their 
glasses,  and  rose  to  drink  the  "  squire's  health." 
Then  came  "  Master  Arthur,"  when  the  hall  shook 
with  their  boisterous  hurrahs.  Edith  clung  firmly 
to  Mary's  arm,  to  still  the  beating  of  her  heart.  Her 
friend  felt  for  her,  and,  as  she  pressed  the  hand 
which  rested  so  confidingly  on  her  arm,  gently  said, 


166  EDITH; 

"You  do  well  to  love  him,  Edith:  he  deserves  it 
all." 

It  was  a  scene  of  simple  and  grateful  enjoyment,  — 
gratitude  to  God  for  his  bestowment  of  an  abundant 
harvest ;  and  also  to  the  master,  who  never  failed  in 
his  efforts  for  the  happiness  of  his  tenants  and 
laborers. 

The  people  departed  without  any  evil  results  from 
the  ale :  all  moved  off  to  their  homes  with  clear 
heads  and  steady  feet.  An  offence  from  too  great 
indulgence  would  not  have  been  overlooked.  Still, 
we  admit,  it  would  be  well  were  the  ale  omitted, 
even  at  the  "harvest-home"  gatherings. 

When  the  two  friends  had  retired  from  the  draw- 
ing-room in  the  evening,  Mary  suddenly  entered 
Edith's  apartment,  and,  seating  herself  by  her,  burst 
into  tears.  Edith  was  surprised,  and  exclaimed,  in 
alarm,  "  What  can  be  the  matter  ?  You  in  tears, 
Mary  !  —  you,  whom  I  have  never  seen  weep  !  " 

"  I  am  very  foolish,  you  will  doubtless  say  or 
think  ;  but  I  cannot  help  it.  You  know,  Edith, 
how  frequently,  of  late,  my  father  has  been  in  Lon- 
don, —  how  often  he  has  walked  about  the  rooms,  as 
if  measuring.  His  movements  have  been  mysterious 
to  me;  but  I  never  question  him  when  he  seems 
disposed  to  silence.  But  now  the  mystery  is  solved. 
He  informed  me,  just  after  you  left  the  room,  that  he 
was  going  to  furnish  the  drawing-rooms  anew ;  had 
purchased  the  furniture,  mirrors,  curtains,  &c.  ;  and 
the  upholsterers  would  be  here  in  a  few  days  from 


OK,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  167 

London  to  arrange  every  thing.  I  started  in  perfect 
astonishment.  "  Papa,"  I  said,  "  why  are  you  dis- 
satisfied now,  when  every  article  used  to  be  so  valua- 
ble for  mamma's  sake  ?  " 

"  For  a  moment  his  calmness  forsook  him  ;  but  he 
recovered  his  self-possession,  and  said,  — 

"  { We  are  exposed  to  more  company  than  we  for- 
merly were.  Arthur  will  leave  college  :  his  friends 
are  all  fashionable  young  men :  in  fact,  I  wish  my 
house  to  look  more  like  those  of  other  people.  All 
the  pictures,  and  what  you  term  fancy  articles,  are 
to  remain  untouched ;  and  every  thing  which  was 
particularly  devoted  to  your  mother  will  belong  to 
Arthur,  yourself,  and  Matilda.'  He  left  me.  I 
feel  as  if  papa  must  be  losing  his  mind  thus  to  have 
changed.  O  Edith !  I  cannot  bear  to  have  my  dear, 
familiar  sofas,  curtains,  &c.,  displaced  for  modern 
finery  ;  and  so"  unkind,  not  to  tell  me  !  " 

Edith's  mind  was  relieved  by  finding  nothing 
more  serious  had  occurred.  Her  first  thought  was 
of  Arthur ;  but  Mary's  tears  did  not  seem  so  much 
the  effect  of  deep  sorrow  as  some  sudden  excitement 
of  her  nerves.  After  mutual  regrets  at  this  singular 
step  of  Mr.  Leslie's,  they  parted  for  the  night. 

Edith  returned  to  Milton  the  next  morning,  but 
not  until  she  had  strolled  into  the  garden,  visited  the 
summer-house,  the  grapery,  and  every  spot  endeared 
from  having  been  enjoyed  when  Arthur  was  with 
her.  She  plucked  a  few  stray  flowers,  which  she 
placed  in  her  bosom  almost  with  the  feeling  of  one 


168  EDITH; 

who  was  destined  never  to  gather  another  from  these 
spots  so  hallowed  by  memory. 

The  moment  she  entered  the  parlor  of  her  home, 
and  saw  Mrs.  Courtenay's  face,  she  knew  something 
unusual  had  occurred.  Her  mother  did  not  speak 
for  a  few  minutes,  and  at  last  said,  — 

"  Edith,  I  have  sad  news.  In  a  letter  just  received 
from  Mr.  Courtenay,  he  tells  me  there  is  very  little 
probability  of  his  coming  to  England  for  some  time : 
he  wishes  me  to  go  to  him,  and  ere  the  winter  sets 
in." 

Edith  gasped  for  breath :  a  deadly  coldness  spread 
over  every  limb.  Go  to  America  ere  winter !  and 
the  autumn  now  advancing  !  It  were  as  if  the  arrow 
of  Death  had  touched  her.  How  could  she  bear  even 
the  thought  of  leaving  England,  Arthur,  Glendale, 
all,  for  a  residence  in  a  foreign  land  ?  or,  worse,  to 
act  a  selfish  part,  —  to  desert  her  best  "friend  at  a  time 
when  she  was  so  valuable  to  her?  The  weight  of 
misery  was  greater  than  she  could  bear ;  and,  burst- 
ing into  an  agony  of  tears,  she  yielded  wholly  to  her 
feelings. 

Mrs.  Courtenay  was  again  silent  for  some  time. 
At  length  she  said,  "  Edith,  I  understand  all  you 
feel,  —  the  struggle  between  affection  and  your  sense 
of  duty;  but,  my  child,  I  must  not,  I  will  not, 
influence  you  in  the  slightest  degree.  You  shall 
decide  for  yourself;  and,  whichever  way  it  may  be, 
I  shall  feel  you  have  acted  from  a  stern  sense  of 
rectitude." 


OK,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  169 

"  O  mamma,  mamma!  "  she  exclaimed,  as,  with  al- 
most passionate  fondness,  she  threw  her  arms  round 
Mrs.  Courtenay,  "  I  will  go  with  you !  "What 
would  my  sufferings  be,  should  we  never  meet  again, 
if  I  had  permitted  you  to  go  to  America  without  me  ? 
I  can  part  with  Arthur,  believe  me  I  can,  if  duty 
demand  it.  He  never  would  approve  my  letting  you 
go  alone  ;  and  he  may  perhaps  go  some  time  hence  to 
the  United  States.  I  do  not  believe  I  could  love 
him  if  I  thought  him  capable  of  urging  me  to  remain 
in  England.  You  seem,  dearest  mamma !  at  this 
moment,  all  the  world  to  me.  No,  no !  I  never 
will  leave  you  until  I  see  you  restored  to  Mr.  Cour- 
tenay, to  papa !  "  Exhausted  by  the  intensity  of  her 
emotions,  she  threw  herself  on  the  sofa,  as  on  that 
sad  day  when  she  learned  her  father's  death,  and, 
burying  her  face  in  the  pillow,  remained  a  long  time 
perfectly  still.  Her  airy  visions  had  all  faded  away, 
—  Arthur's  visits  in  the  winter ;  the  happy  intercourse 
by  letter  when  he  was  not  with  her ;  the  many  little 
pleasures  he  had  planned  when  they  could  be  to- 
gether, —  all,  all,  by  one  fell  blow,  were  struck 
down ;  and,  in  their  place,  rose  a  voyage  across  the 
Atlantic,  with  no  cheering  thing  for  her  on  arrival 
but  to  meet  Mr.  Courtenay ;  a  foreign  land ;  stran- 
gers ;  three  thousand  miles  of  ocean  between  her 
and  the  friends  of  her  girlhood,  the  chosen  partner 
of  her  young  and  pure  affections.  Dreary,  dreary 
indeed,  was  the  picture  ;  and  well  might  the  afflicted 

girl  hide  her  face  from  the  day. 

15 


170  EDITH  ; 

Truly  had  her  mother  foreboded  her  sufferings 
when  she  wrote  her,  that,  "  when  separation  occurs, 
then  come  the  hours  of  sadness."  A  host  of  unex- 
pected anxieties  had  arisen,  &c.  She  now  under- 
stood fully  what  she  meant  by  this  sentence ;  its  force 
had  indeed  come  upon  her. 

The  silence  in  the  room  had  in  it  something  of 
awe.  Mrs.  Courtenay  sat  at  the  window,  her  head 
leaning  on  her  hand,  waiting  patiently  for  her  child's 
grief  partially  to  subside.  Delicacy  forbade  her  saying 
any  thing  more.  She  knew  what  Edith  was,  and  left 
her  to  her  own  guidance,  convinced  she  would  act 
conscientiously  and  wisely.  At  last,  Edith's  head 
was  raised :  with  the  light  of  Heaven's  approval  in 
her  eyes,  animation  in  every  step,  she  approached 
her  mother,  and  said,  solemnly,  "  I  am  glad,  mamma, 
I  am  not  irresolute,  with  all  my  faults.  My  mind 
is  now  in  comparative  ease  :  I  am  perfectly  decided. 
I  have  asked  of  my  God  to  strengthen  my  resolves ; 
and  I  feel  the  strength  will  be  given  me.  Let  us 
now,  dearest  mamma,  call  the  two  girls,  and  go  out 
and  walk.  The  fresh  air  will  do  us  good  :  I  seem 
much  to  need  it,  and  you  are  very  pale.  To-morrow 
will  be  time  enough  to  talk  of  this  sudden  and  dis- 
tressing requirement  of  Mr.  Courtenay." 

Edith  called  Caroline  and  Marion,  and  together 
they  all  strolled  towards  Milton  Church.  Edith 
slightly  objected  to  this  walk  ;  but  Mrs.  Courtenay 
said,  in  a  voice  tremulous  from  internal  suffering, 
"  It  will  do  me  good :  do  not  object,  dear  Edith  ! " 


OR,    THE    LIGHT   OF    HOME.  171 

The  day  had  been  one  of  those  mild  autumnal 
days  when  Nature  seemed  to  sympathize  with  sad- 
dened hearts.  They  entered  the  churchyard,  the 
profound  silence  of  which  was  broken  only  by  the 
wailing  of  the  southern  breeze  among  the  yew-trees, 
which  stood  as  sentinels  to  guard  the  hallowed 
ground.  They  advanced  towards  the  graves  of  Ellen 
and  Emma,  adorned  by  white  marble  slabs.  The 
children  had  gathered  clusters  of  asters  and  golden- 
rod  on  the  way :  with  intuitive  knowledge  of  their 
mother's  feelings,  they  scattered  their  humble  offer- 
ings on  their  sisters'  graves.  The  silence  remained 
unbroken :  the  hour  seemed  too  sacred  to  be  invaded 

* 

by  human  voices.  Edith  bent  towards  the  earth, 
and,  gathering  the  scattered  remains  of  some  flowers 
which  had  bloomed  but  lately,  carefully  held  them 
in  one  hand,  while,  with  the  other,  she  gently  drew 
her  mother  from  the  consecrated  spot,  fearing  the 
effect  upon  her  already-oppressed  spirit.  But  the 
walk  had  a  salutary  influence  upon  Mrs.  Courtenay, 
and  the  evening  passed  calmly  away. 


172  EDITH; 


CHAPTER    XXVII. 


"  And  Ruth  said,  Entreat  me  not  to  leave  thee,  or  to  return  from  following 
after  thee :  for  whither  them  goest,  I  will  go ;  and  where  thou  lodgest,  I  will  lodge : 
thy  people  shall  be  my  people,  and  thy  God  my  God." 


THERE  was  very  little  sleep  that  night  either  for 
Mrs.  Courtenay  or  Edith.  The  latter  rose  unre- 
freshed,  pale,  and  languid,  but,  immediately  after 
breakfast,  wrote  to  Arthur,  and  told  him  how  severe 
had  been  the  struggle,  but  how  firm  was  her  decision 
to  accompany  her  mother.  She  might  remain  in  the 
United  States  only  one  year,  which,  she  cheerfully 
said,  would  soon  pass.  Then  there  would  be  one 
source  of  happiness  left,  to  write  freely  to  each  other 
of  all  that  might  occur.  "  I  know,  dear  Arthur, 
you  will  reconcile  yourself  to  this  event  of  our  sepa- 
ration, by  believing  all  is  for  the  best.  Think  of 
poor  mamma  at  sea,  with  her  two  little  girls,  without 
me !  You  know  how  well  she  loves  me.  I  could  not 
have  the  heart  —  no,  I  could  not  —  to  remain  behind, 
even  if  I  were  sure  of  seeing  you  every  week,  be- 
cause I  should  feel  I  had  played  a  selfish  part ;  but 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  173 

I  shall  count  the  days  and  the  hours  until  we  meet 
again." 

Immediately  upon  the  receipt  of  this  letter,  Ar- 
thur obtained  permission  to  leave  Cambridge,  and 
hastened  to  Milton.  He  found  the  family  very  sad, 
but  calm.  He  knew  it  was  a  great  undertaking  for 
a  lady  to  prepare  for  a  voyage,  with  neither  husband 
nor  son  to  aid  her.  He  therefore  pointed  out  to  Mrs. 
Courtenay,  with  respectful  tenderness,  the  fatigue 
and  anxiety  attendant  on  the  preparations  for  a  voy- 
age, to  accomplish  which  she  would  be  at  sea  during 
the  shortest  days,  when  there  was  little  daylight,  and 
those  long  nights  so  much  to  be  dreaded.  It  would 
be  easy  to  write  Mr.  Courtenay  how  long  it  would 
take  to  get  ready  to  leave  England.  There  must  be 
a  sale  of  furniture,  clothing  to  prepare  suitable  for  a 
voyage,  business  transactions  of  various  kinds  to  set- 
tle :  how  was  it  possible  to  be  ready  in  less  than 
three  months  ?  at  which  time  it  would  be  midwinter. 
After  repeated  conversations,  and  as  many  resolves, 
it  was  decided  Mrs.  Courtenay  should  write  her 
husband,  and  desire  him  not  to  expect  his  family  to 
leave  England  until  the  beginning  of  March.  Her 
anxious  life  for  eighteen  months  had  affected  her 
health ;  and  she  evidently  was  not  equal  to  the  hur- 
ried exertions  she  could  once  have  made. 

Arthur  made  no  effort  to  alter  Edith's  determina- 
tion to  accompany  her  mother.  He  loved  her  with 
as  devoted  an  affection  as  the  human  heart  is  capable 
of  feeling  ;  but  his  sense  of  right  told  him  what  were 

15* 


174  EDITH; 

Mrs.  Courtenay's  claims  to  her  love  and  gratitude. 
She  had  received  her,  as  a  dying  bequest,  from  a 
friend  she  loved  very  sincerely;  had  watched  over 
her  infancy  with  more  than  a  parent's  tenderness  ; 
had  guarded  her  youth,  as  far  as  possible,  from  every 
thing  that  could  shadow  its  brightness ;  and,  when 
the  fatal  intelligence  reached  England  that  she  was 
an  orphan,  her  affection  seemed  to  redouble,  —  her 
watchful  care  of  her  became  almost  devotion.  Could 
he  ask  Edith  to  remain  in  England  under  any  other 
protection  than  that  of  his  sister  ?  and  that,  with  his 
father's  feelings,  was  not  at  all  what  he  should  desire 
for  her  happiness.  Arthur's  courage  faltered,  per- 
haps, a  little,  when  he  thought  of  the  lapse  of  time 
ere  they  should  meet.  Separated  by  an  ocean,  day 
after  day,  month  after  month,  must  pass  on  without 
seeing  each  other.  But  he  knew  the  separation  could 
not  weaken  the  affection  of  two  such  hearts ;  and 
his  sanguine  nature  led  him  to  hope  some  change  of 
circumstances  which  would  restore  them  to  each 
other,  perhaps,  in  a  year.  His  collegiate  course, 
when  ended,  would  leave  him,  in  a  degree,  master 
of  his  own  actions.  His  property,  independently 
of  his  father,  amounted  to  three  thousand  pounds, 
one  thousand  of  which  had  been  left  him  by  his 
grandfather,  the  same  to  each  of  his  sisters.  This, 
with  a  profession,  whether  of  the  law  or  the  mini- 
stry, would  be  enough  to  begin  the  world.  Arthur 
inclined  to  the  latter,  and  often,  in  the  indulgence  of 
visions  for  the  future,  fancied  himself  the  pastor  of 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  175 

the  village-church  of  Glendale,  —  Edith  his  compa- 
nion in  his  walks  of  charity,  visits  to  the  sick  and 
the  afflicted,  and  soothing  the  departing  spirit. 

It  has  been  said,  "  Youth  is  the  season  of  romance. 
Its  buoyant  spirit  must  soar  till  weighed  down  by 
earthly  care.  It  is  in  youth  that  hope  lends  its 
cheering  ray ;  and  love,  its  genial  influence.  It  is 
then  the  world  seems  so  fair  ;  and  if,  in  maturer  life, 
we  smile  at  the  romance  of  youth,  and  lament,  per- 
haps, its  aberrations,  yet  we  must  often  regret  the 
depth  of  our  young  emotions,  the  disinterestedness 
of  our  young  affections,  and  that  enthusiasm  of  pur- 
pose which,  alas  !  we  soon  grow  too  wise  to  cherish." 

Arthur,  then,  may  be  forgiven  if  he  blended  with 
sound  sense  and  clear  discernment  a  shadow  of  the 
same  romantic  feeling  which  had  often  made  Edith 
so  interesting  to  him.  He  remained  but  a  very  short 
time  in  Milton ;  went  to  Glendale  on  his  return  to 
Cambridge,  as  he  never  wished  his  father  to  believe 
him  clandestine  in  his  visits  at  Mrs.  Courtenay's.  He 
did  not  find  the  latter  at  home :  he  was  again  in 
London.  ,  The  new  furniture  had  arrived,  was  in 
place;  and  his  loved  household  gods,  he  said,  all 
displaced. 

Mary  seemed  sad  at  the  prospect  of  Edith's  re- 
moval to  the  United  States,  but  agreed  with  her 
brother  in  thinking  duty  pointed  the  path,  and  she 
ought  to  pursue  it.  He  returned  to  Cambridge, 
much  relieved  in  his  anxious  feelings  by  his  visit  to 


176  EDITH; 

Milton,  and  the  certainty  of  Mrs.  Courtenay's  voyage 
being  deferred  for  a  month  or  two. 

In  due  time,  a  letter  was  received  from  Mr.  Cour- 
tenay,  in  which  he  blamed  himself,  that,  in  his  anxi- 
ety to  see  his  family,  he  had  been  so  thoughtless  as 
to  suppose  his  wife  could  be  prepared  during  so 
short  a  time.  He  wrote  for  her  to  have  no  thought 
about  taking  her  passage,  &c. ;  he  would  manage  all 
that ;  find  some  well-built  ship,  experienced  com- 
mander, by  whom  he  would  write,  and  desire  him  to 
call  upon  her,  stating  when  his  ship  would  be  ready 
for  sea,  &c. 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  177 


CHAPTER    XXVIII. 


"  Dost  thou  think  I  care  for  a  satire  or  an  epigram?  No:  if  a  man  will  be 
beaten  with  brains,  he  shall  wear  nothing  handsome  about  him.  In  brief,  since  I 
do  propose  to  marry,  I  will  think  nothing  to  any  purpose  that  the  world  can  say 
against  it;  and  therefore  never  flout  at  me  for  what  I  have  said  against  it:  for 
man  is  a  giddy  thing;  and  this  is  my  conclusion."  —  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 


THE  family  in  Milton  soon  commenced  the  task  of 
arrangements  for  the  sale  of  furniture,  and  prepara- 
tion of  every  thing  necessary  for  a  voyage.  Mrs. 
Harcourt  and  Margaret  looked  forward,  with  great 
dread,  to  a  separation  from  their  friends ;  the  ad- 
vanced age  of  the  former  making  it  very  improbable 
she  should  ever  see  them  again. 

Mrs.  Courtenay's  attachment  to  both  was  very 
strong :  so  deep,  indeed,  was  her  reverence  for  Mrs. 
Harcourt,  that  the  bare  mention  of  her  departure 
filled  her  mind  with  deep  regret;  and  often  did 
Edith  watch  the  mournful  expression  of  her  mother's 
face  when  the  subject  was  talked  of:  fears,  which 
she  vainly  strove  to  hide,  flowed  from  her  eyes  when 
the  young  people  asked  questions  concerning  the  sea, 
the  Americans,  &c.  It  was  a  sorrowful  idea  to  leave 


178  EDITH; 

her  country,  with  all  its  fond  associations  ;  the  friends 
of  her  early  life ;  the  town  where  she  had  passed  so 
many  happy  days  ;  the  old  ivy-covered  church  where 
her  marriage  vows  were  registered ;  and  the  grave- 
yard where  her  children  reposed.  In  the  desolation 
of  her  spirit,  there  was  one  ray  of  sunshine,  —  the 
meeting  with  her  husband  and  son  :  but  for  this,  she 
could  not  have  borne  the  fatigue,  as  well  as  excite- 
ment, through  which  she  had  to  pass.  Had  she 
known  all  that  was  before  her,  her  gentle  nature 
would,  indeed,  have  quailed  at  the  prospect.  The 
deep  shadows  of  the  future  were  mercifully  hidden. 

At  Christmas,  Arthur  was  often  in  the  family- 
circle.  His  vacation  at  Cambridge  would  last  some 
time,  and  he  devoted  as  much  of  it  as  possible  to 
Edith.  What  changes  had  occurred  to  the  affianced 
pair !  and  how  soon  they  were  to  separate !  But, 
whenever  this  subject  became  too  serious  in  its  cha- 
racter, when  anticipations  otherwise  than  cheerful 
presented  themselves,  Edith  would  point  to  the 
diamond  on  her  finger,  and  hush  his  voice  at  once. 

One  morning,  while  he  was  assisting  her  to  pack 
her  drawing-case,  Jenny  brought  him  a  letter.  He 
opened  it  hastily,  knowing  it  was  Mary's  hand- 
writing. He  seemed,  at  first,  very  much  excited 
and  agitated,  and  then  burst  into  an  immoderate  fit 
of  laughter.  "  I  do  believe,  Edith,"  he  at  last  said, 
"  my  father  is  mad,  and  other  people  too,  —  strange 
subject,  you  must  think,  for  merriment.  Read  this 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  179 

letter,  while  I  go  into  the  town  to  order  my  horse ; 
for  I  must  be  off  within  an  hour." 

"  GLENDALE,  Dec.  27,  18 — . 

"  DEAREST  ARTHUR,  —  I  feel  in  such  a  state  of  feverish  excite- 
ment, I  can  hardly  guide  my  pen  ;  but  I  write  by  papa's  orders. 

"  You  know  he  has  been  in  London  for  some  days.  No  one  was 
at  home  but  Matilda  and  I  on  Christmas  Day.  You,  dear  brother, 
were  happy ;  and  I  have  not  a  word  to  say  about  loneliness.  This 
morning,  I  was  seated  in  the  library,  when  I  was  startled  by  the 
noise  of  carriage-wheels,  which  stopped  at  the  hall-door.  I  ran 
to  see  who  or  what  was  to  be  seen,  when  the  carriage-door  was 
opened :  my  father  stepped  out,  handing  a  lady.  They  entered 
the  western  drawing-room,  where,  fortunately,  was  a  large  fire.  I 
stepped  forward,  when  papa  took  my  hand,  leading  me  to  the 
lady,  saying,  '  Mary,  allow  me  to  present  to  you  Mrs.  Leslie,  my 
unfe.'  I  was  perfectly  thunder-struck.  Not  knowing  what  to  do, 
at  length  I  stammered  out,  '  Papa,  why  was  I  not  prepared  for 
this  event  ? '  I  trembled  like  an  aspen-leaf.  I  know  my  color 
all  left  my  cheeks.  We  stood  looking  at  each  other,  until  Mrs. 
Leslie  broke  the  silence  by  saying,  in  a  very  pleasant  tone,  — 

" '  I  trust  I  may  be  welcome,  though  unexpected.' 

" '  Welcome  ' !  To  have  my  dear  mamma's  place  filled  by  a 
stranger,  and  to  talk  of  welcome !  What  sort  of  woman  can  she 
be  thus  to  enter  a  family  ?  I  could  only  say, '  I  -will  do  all  in 
my  power,  madam,  to  evince  my  respect' 

" '  Where  is  Arthur  ?  '  inquired  your  father.  '  Is  not  Matilda 
at  home  ? ' 

"  Arthur  is  in  Milton,'  I  said ;  (how  he  scowled !)  '  Matilda  is 
up  stairs.' 

"  Do  you  think  he  will  venture  to  talk  of  '  love-passages,'  scenes, 
romance,  &c.  ?  I  wonder  if  they  are  all  nonsense  now  ?  It 
seems  they  have  been  married  several  days.  Papa  wishes  you  to 
come  home  immediately,  to  pay  your  respects  to  Mrs.  Leslie  (I 
never  will  call  her  mother,  and  I  am  sure  you  will  not). 

"  She  is  a  very  fashionable-looking  woman ;  rather  handsome ; 


180  EDITH  ; 

somewhat  haughty,  I  suspect.  Oh,  dear,  dear !  how  am  I  to  sup- 
port this  change  ?  Why  was  papa  so  reserved  ?  Was  there  not 
a  degree  of  deception  about  the  whole  business,  commencing  with 
the  new  furniture  ?  I  would  not,  Arthur,  be  disrespectful ;  but  I 
cannot  help  the  inquiry.  And  then,  to  think  of  papa,  at  fifty, 
with  a  new  wife,  and  he  so  often  talking  of  your  folly  in  being  in 
love !  When  you  arrive  at  this  sentence,  how  you  will  laugh ! 
Can  you  help  making  the  contrast  ?  Pray,  come  home  immedi- 
ately. Give  my  love  to  dear  Edith ;  yes,  a  thousand  loves,  — 
some  to  Mrs.  Courtenay  and  the  two  darling  girls. 

"  Your  affectionate  MARY. 

"P.S.  —  The  servants  are  half  crazy,  talking  so  noisily,  'Mas- 
ter has  brought  home  a  wife ! ' " 


Arthur,  when  he  re-entered  the  house,  had  parted 
•with  his  merriment.  The  strangeness  of  his  father's 
proceedings  admitted,  he  thought,  of  very  little  ex- 
cuse. He  had  a  perfect  right  to  marry  again,  if  he 
wished.  Why  all  this  mystery  ?  It  was  almost  in- 
sulting to  children  who  were  grown  up.  But  he 
put  away  his  uncomfortable  feelings,  and  hastened  to 
say  good-by  to  Edith.  "  I  shall  hear  from  you  or 
see  you  again  soon,  Arthur  ?  " 

"No,  no!  I  am,  you  know,  never  in  a  hurry 
either  to  write  or  to  come.  What  a  question,  Edith ! 
I  am  half  tempted  to  scold.  But  good-by,  my  own, 
shall  I  say  ?  "  And  he  was  on  his  way  to  Glendale 
in  another  minute. 

The  preparations  for  leaving  England  went  steadily 
on.  The  furniture  was  sold,  and  the  family  at  Mrs. 
Harcourt's,  at  her  urgent  request,  until  letters  could 
arrive  from  Mr.  Courtenay  naming  the  ship  in  which 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  181 

they  were  to  embark.  Before  the  house  was  closed, 
Mrs.  Courtenay  had  a  conversation  with  Jenny, 
wherein  she  learned  her  desire  to  accompany  her  to 
America.  When  Mrs.  Courtenay  represented  to  her 
the  difference  of  her  present  situation  from  what  it 
had  been  when  she  first  lived  with  her,  the  true  nobi- 
lity of  her  character  shone  forth.  "  O  madam !  "  she 
replied,  "  I  enjoyed  many  privileges,  when  you  were 
in  prosperity,  far  beyond  my  station.  I  will  not 
leave  you  in  adversity.  I  will  follow  your  fortunes 
to  the  end,  let  them  be  what  they  may.  I  want  to 
see  my  dear  master  ;  be  with  the  young  ladies :  this 
will  be  happiness  enough  to  me.  Do  not  speak  to 
me  about  wages  ;  please,  ma'am,  don't !  "  These  me- 
morable words  from  a  faithful  servant  spoke  volumes 
for  the  disinterestedness  which,  disregarding  all  pe- 
cuniary advantages,  was  willing  to  sacrifice  love  of 
country  and  friends  to  go  to  a  distant  land,  under  a 
change  of  circumstances  such  as  she  had  never  anti- 
cipated. 

To  Edith,  the  arrangements  with  Jenny  gave  par- 
ticular pleasure,  because  she  knew  how  much  her 
services  would  be  needed  at  sea,  —  services  such  as 
no  one  could  so  well  perform  for  her  mother;  and, 
then,  the  two  girls  were  so  dependent  on  her,  no 
stranger,  however  capable,  could  have  supplied  her 
place. 

There  were  times  when,  as  we  have  before  sug- 
gested, Jenny  felt  her  power,  and  perhaps  exercised 
it  in  household  regulations,  feeling  she  knew  best 

16 


EDITH  ; 

what  ought  to  be  done ;  but  this  love  of  power  was 
never  exhibited  either  in  impertinent  observations 
or  replies.  Her  demeanor  was  at  all  times  respect- 
ful to  Mrs.  Courtenay  and  Edith.  Even  reproofs  for 
her  belief  in  signs  and  omens  seldom  elicited  any 
thing  beyond  wonder  that  people  were  such  unbe- 
lievers ;  and,  from  the  fact  that  two  or  three  events 
had  occurred  as  she  predicted,  she  watched  the  times 
and  the  seasons,  like  a  second  Norna  of  the  Fitful 
Head. 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  183 


CHAPTER    XXIX. 


"  Not  even  savage  Nature's  sternest  child, 
'Mid  tangled  forests  born  or  deserts  wild, 
But  he  has  something  felt,  when  doomed  to  part,  — 
The  last  sad  hopeless  sinking  of  the  heart ! 
Nor  lives  there  one  who  has  not  still  deferred, 
And  would  not  longer  shun,  to  speak  that  word: 
The  grave  of  love,  and  dear  affection's  knell, 
Are  found,  alas!  too  oft  in  that  farewell." 


THERE  is  an  old  adage  which  says,  "  It  is  always 
the  darkest  just  before  daylight."  Something  of 
this  truth  was  seen  one  week  in  Milton.  Letters 
came  from  Mr.  Courtenay,  handed  by  Capt.  Henly, 
of  the  ship  "  Galatea,"  about  the  middle  of  January. 
He  announced  his  ship  was  in  the  Thames,  with  a 
pilot  bound  to  London,  where  she  would  probably 
be  about  five  weeks,  fitting  for  her  homeward  pas- 
sage ;  at  the  end  of  which  time,  he  should  stop  in 
Gravesend  to  take  his  passengers,  when  Mrs.  Cour- 
tenay and  family  must  be  ready  to  go  on  board.  No 
one  had,  until  this  gentleman's  appearance,  realized, 
in  full  force,  that  a  separation  was  indeed  at  hand. 
Mrs.  Harcjourt's  grief  was  severe  :  there  was  no  out- 
pourings of  lamentation ;  but  in  her  pale  face  and 


184  EDITH  ; 

quiet  demeanor  was  exhibited  a  holy  submission  to 
the  will  of  "  Him  who  doeth  all  things  well." 

The  shock  to  Edith  was  very  great.  Her  heart 
was  too  full  to  give  utterance  to  her  feelings  in 
speech.  She  resolutely  exercised  all  the  discipline 
of  which  her  strong  mind  was  capable.  The  ring, 
talismanic  as  she  had  believed  it,  had  little  power 
now  to  allay  her  grief  as  she  thought  of  leaving 
England.  But  she  lifted  up  her  voice  in  prayer  for 
firmness  to  bear  all  before  her  ;  and  the  firmness  was 
given.  In  a  few  days,  she  saw  Arthur  again  ;  for 
his  mind  was  too  unsettled  for  much  study.  He 
came  unexpectedly,  with  a  request  to  Edith,  from  his 
father  and  Mrs.  Leslie,  to  go  for  one  or  two  days  to 
Glendale.  She  was  delighted  at  this  evidence  of 
pleasant  feeling,  and  hastened  her  little  preparations. 

Arthur  drove  her  in  a  chaise ;  and,  just  as  they 
reached  the  rustic  bridge,  he  took  from  his  coat- 
pocket  a  small  case,  which,  on  opening,  she  saw  con- 
tained a  beautiful  miniature  of  himself,  and  one  of 
his  soft  brown  curls.  She  turned  pale,  then  deep 
crimson.  Her  chest  heaved  with  the  fulness  of  her 
emotion ;  and,  in  a  tumult  of  feeling  she  could  not 
restrain,  she  pressed  her  lips  on  the  insensible  re- 
semblance of  her  betrothed.  He  laughed  at  her 
enthusiasm,  as  he  called  it,  but  soothed  her  into 
composure  by  his  gentle  and  respectful  tenderness, 
saying, — 

"Edith,  dearest!  the  hour  of  our  separation  is 
approaching.  You  must  sit  for  your  picture  too, 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  185 

and  give  me  a  jetty  ringlet.  I  will  send  the  same 
artist  to  you  next  week." 

By  this  time  they  had  reached  the  house.  She 
alighted  from  the  chaise,  and  was  soon  in  Mary's 
embrace,  and  then  conducted  to  the  parlor.  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Leslie  rose  to  receive  her.  Mr.  Leslie 
presented  her  to  his  wife,  saying,  "Allow  me  to 
introduce  to  you  my  son's  future  wife,  —  my  daugh- 
ter. Edith,  my  dear,  as  such  I  have  sent  for  you,  — 
as  such  I  acknowledge  you." 

"Father!  my  dear  father!"  exclaimed  Arthur, 
"  how  can  I  sufficiently  thank  you  for  this  fulfilment 
of  my  wishes,  my  hopes  ?  "  He  could  say  no  more  : 
his  words  died  on  his  lips.  Such  unexpected  happi- 
ness was  more  than  his  firmness  could  support.  He 
turned  to  a  window  ;  while  Mr.  Leslie,  imprinting 
a  kiss  on  Edith's  brow,  placed  her  between  himself 
and  his  wife,  on  a  sofa.  What  a  revulsion  of  feeling 
for  all !  —  the  acknowledged  affianced  of  Arthur  ! 
Edith  seemed  to  be  lightened  of  half  her  anxieties  ; 
the  future,  in  one  moment,  all  brightness. 

The  day  had  passed  swiftly  and  cheerfully  to  all 
at  Glendale.  Mr.  Leslie  had  laid  aside  his  reserve 
and  dignified  coldness,  and  Mrs.  Leslie  appeared 
desirous  to  please. 

When  the  hour  of  retiring  arrived,  the  two  young 
friends  went  to  Mary's  apartment,  where  a  blazing 
fire  in  the  grate  cast  a  ruddy  glow  over  the  furni- 
ture, lighting  it  up  so  brightly,  that  they  seated 
themselves  as  if  for  a  long  conversation.  Edith, 

16* 


186  EDITH  ; 

while  looking  round  the  comfortable  chamber,  con- 
trasted the  state-room  of  a  merchant-ship  :  its  narrow 
limits  and  sundry  inconveniences  rose  like  a  spectre 
before  her  vivid  imagination ;  but,  unwilling  to  cloud 
her  friend's  mind,  she  turned  her  eyes  to  the  wall,  say- 
ing, "  How  glad  I  am  your  mamma's  picture  is  here  ! 
A  daughter's  apartment  seems  the  holiest  spot  for  it. 
How  I  wish  I  had  a  portrait  of  either  or  both  my 
parents !  But  I  have  something  so  valuable,  Mary, 
I  ought  to  be  contented."  And  she  exhibited  the 
beautiful  miniature  of  Arthur,  —  that  classical  head, 
the  noble  features,  and  rich  brown  curls,  so  like, 
and  so  exquisitely  painted.  They  both  looked  at  it 
so  long  and  intently,  that  Mary  at  last  said,  laugh- 
ingly, <f  Edith,  the  candles  and  your  bright  eyes 
together  will  fade  the  colors  :  do  shut  it  up  !  " 

Edith  inquired  why  Mr.  Leslie  had  so  suddenly 
changed  his  deportment  to  her.  Why  did  he  call 
her  his  future  daughter,  &c.  ?  Mary  smiled,  and  then 
said,  "  Has  not  Arthur  told  you  his  adventure  with 
the  dog  ?  " 

"  No,"  replied  Edith  ;  "  nor  do  I  know  to  what 
you  allude." 

Mary  then  informed  her,  that,  for  several  days 
during  the  past  week,  one  of  Arthur's  dogs  had  ap- 
peared restless  and  uneasy,  refusing  at  intervals  to 
drink,  and  at  times  uttering  low  growls,  as  if  in 
pain.  He  was  Ordered  to  be  secured  in  his  kennel, 
until  some  more  decided  evidence  of  hydrophobia 
appeared. 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  187 

"  On  Wednesday  morning,  Arthur  took  his  gun, 
and  went  into  the  woods  in  search  of  game.  While 
he  was  sauntering  along,  he  was  suddenly  startled 
by  loud  cries.  He  glanced  in  the  direction  of  the 
bridge,  then  towards  the  woods,  uncertain  from 
whence  the  sound  proceeded.  The  cries  were  re- 
newed. He  sprang  forward,  and,  through  the  open- 
ing in  the  shrubbery,  beheld  Mrs.  Leslie,  running 
with  the  speed  of  lightning,  pursued  by  the  dog, 
whose  eyes  glared  wildly,  and  who  was  evidently  in 
the  act  of  springing  at  his  victim. 

"  With  the  presence  of  mind  which  characterizes 
every  action,  Arthur,"  she  continued,  "  said  in  gentle 
tones,  *  Leo  !  Leo  ! '  The  infuriated  animal  paused. 
Not  a  moment  was  to  be  lost.  Arthur  levelled  his 
gun,  —  his  aim  was  unerring,  —  and  Leo  instantly 
fell  dead.  Mrs.  Leslie  shrieked  frantically,  uncon- 
scious, as  she  afterwards  said,  of  my  brother's  pre- 
sence, until  she  heard  the  report  of  the  gun.  The 
dog  was  so  near  her,  that  there  was  a  fearful  chance 
of  her  being  shot.  She  was  completely  exhausted 
by  terror  and  the  rapidity  of  her  flight.  Arthur 
wras  very  affectionately  attentive  to  her.  He  took  off 
his  coat,  and,  placing  it  on  the  turf,  seated  her,  while 
he  went  to  the  little  waterfall  we  have  so  often  ad- 
mired, brought  water  in  his  hunting-cap,  bathed  her 
temples  and  hands  until  she  was  sufficiently  calm  to 
be  able  to  reach  the  house.  Her  gratitude  was  ex- 
pressed in  the  warmest  terms  for  Arthur's  prompt 
and  heroic  preservation  of  her  from  the  dog,  about 


188  EDITH; 

•whose  madness  there  could  be  no  doubt,  as  he  must 
have  snapped  his  chain  in  a  paroxysm,  and  fled  to- 
wards the  woods,  probably  in  pursuit  of  his  master. 
Mrs.  Leslie  considers  Arthur's  sudden  appearance  as 
Heaven-directed ;  for  she  felt  her  strength  yielding 
to  the  agitation  of  her  mind,  and  thought,  in  one 
minute  more,  she  must  have  fallen  to  the  earth. 

"  You  may  naturally  suppose,  dear  Edith,  we  were 
all  very,  happy  in  the  safety  of  Mrs.  Leslie.  I  think 
Arthur  risked  much  in  doing  as  he  did.  Had  he 
been  a  less  experienced  marksman,  he  had  wounded, 
if  not  killed  her ;  for  Leo  touched  her  dress  with 
his  fore-paws." 

Edith  was  much  excited  by  this  narration,  and 
longed  to  go  down  stairs  to  express  to  both  her 
friends  her  congratulations :  but  Mary  advised  her 
against  it,  as  Mrs.  Leslie  had  requested  the  affair 
might  not  be  mentioned ;  for  her  nerves  had  not 
wholly  recovered  from  the  shock. 

"And  now,  Edith,  I  must  go  on  to  say,,  that 
I  think  this  incident  has  increased  in  my  father,  in  a 
tenfold  degree,  the  value  of  Arthur.  He  has  noticed, 
for  some  time,  the  anxious  look  my  brother  has 
worn ;  and,  though  there  has  been  no  diminution  of 
respectful  tenderness  in  his  manner  towards  his 
father,  a  superficial  observer  must  have  noticed  the 
constraint  of  all  his  actions ;  and,  since  we  have 
learned  your  decision  to  accompany  Mrs.  Courtenay 
to  the  United  States,  we  have  all  discussed  the  disin- 
terestedness of  your  conduct. 


OR,    THE   LIGHT    OF    HOME.  189 

"  I  have  no  doubt  my  father  now  views  Arthur's 
attachment  to  you  as  something  more  than  a  boyish 
fancy,  and  that  he  planned  with  Mrs.  Leslie  the  scene 
of  to-day ;  in,  addition  to  which,  the  good  sense  and 
gentlemanly  respect  Arthur  exhibited  in  his  deport- 
ment towards  his  step-mother,  on  his  introduction, 
softened  his  father's  heart :  for,"  she  continued, 
"  when  he  entered  the  house,  though  looking  very 
pale,  he  advanced  affectionately  towards  her,  and, 
taking  one  of  her  hands  in  both  of  his,  clasped  it 
very  cordially,  and,  kissing  it,  said,  '  I  know,  ma- 
dam, you  will  do  all  for  the  happiness  of  my  father 
and  his  family,  that,  as  rational  beings,  we  have  any 
right  to  expect.'  She  seemed  touched  by  his  man- 
ner, so  different  from  mine,  and  made  a  very  gra- 
cious reply.  Then  Arthur  handed  her  into  the 
dining-room,  —  led  her  to  my  seat  at  the  head  of 
the  table.  I  know  how  hard  he  tried  to  appear 
calm.  The  tears  were  in  my  eyes.  Since  that 
day's  ordeal,  every  thing  has  gone  very  smoothly. 
I  have  very  little  care.  Mrs.  Leslie  does  not  inter- 
fere with  my  pursuits  ;  and,  were  it  not  for  the  dread 
of  her  fashionable  London  friends,  I  should  be  satis- 
fied. But  I  know  she  will  fill  the  house  with  com- 
pany very  soon  ;  for  she  already  calls  it  dull  here." 

"  Oh,"  said  Edith,  "  how  happy  every  one  ought 
to  be  here !  I  know  you,  dear  Mary,  will  be  happy 
with  Matilda  and  Arthur.  Will  you  not,  by  every 
attention,  be  to  him  what  I  so  gladly  would  be  ?  He 
will  feel  my  absence." 


190  EDITH  ; 

"  Yes,"  replied  Mary :  "  I  will  exert  myself  to  the 
utmost  for  his  sake,  your  sake,  Edith ;  and,  but  for  that 
hateful  voyage  to  America,  you  might  be  happy  also." 

"  Do  not  call  any  thing  hateful  when  duty  points 
the  way.  Let  what  may  occur,  I  shall  never  have  a 
regret :  indeed,  I  can  bear  any  thing,  under  the  con- 
viction that  I  act  from  a  sense  of  right.  There  are 
melancholy  scenes  before  me,  I  doubt  not ;  they  may 
require  struggles  to  maintain  my  fortitude :  but, 
Mary,  I  shall  preserve  it ;  because  I  shall,  I  do  already, 
ask  it,  where  no  petition  is  refused.  Good-night, 
dearest !  "  And  the  friends  separated. 

Edith's  mind  had  been  so  agitated  by  the  various 
events  of  the  last  few  hours,  she  slept  but  little.  The 
night  was  one  of  unusual  stillness :  not  a  sound  dis- 
turbed the  tranquillity;  even  Leo's  voice  was  now 
hushed  in  a  long,  long  sleep.  She  watched  the  first 
streak  of  rosy  light  in  the  eastern  horizon  with  such 
confusion  in  her  head  as  hardly  to  realize  whether 
she  was  not  already  at  sea.  The  sun  soon  began  to 
brighten  the  sky;  when  she  hastily  dressed,  and 
awaited  the  summons  to  breakfast,  as  an  incident  to 
break  in  upon  the  tedium  of  many  sleepless  hours. 

Soon  after  breakfast,  she  begged  Mrs.  Leslie  to 
receive  her  congratulations  on  having  escaped  un- 
harmed from  a  painful  scene,  "  the  details  of  which," 
she  said,  "  Mary  had  given  her  the  previous  even- 
ing. I  am  sure,  my  dear  madam,  you  will  forgive 
me  for  not  obeying  your  wishes  for  silence  on  this 
affair  ;  and  may  I  not  hope  this  act  of  Arthur's  will 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  191 

endear  him  to  you,  and  add  one  more  link  to  the 
chain  which  must  bind  him  to  you  ?  He  is  so  disin- 
terested, so  wholly  forgetful  of  self,  when  he  can 
serve  another ! " 

"  Yes,"  replied  Mrs.  Leslie  :  "  I  cannot  feel  too 
much  for  this  exemplary  young  man ;  and  there  may 
be  another  link,  —  one  for  your  sweet  self,  dear 
Edith.  What  shall  I  say  to  her  who  is  ready  to 
resign  so  much  of  her  happiness  to  accompany  her 
mother  to  a  foreign  land  ?  " 

"  Say  of  her,  that  the  mother  deserves  all,  and 
more  than  all,  the  adopted  child  can  do  for  her ;  for 
whatever  good  there  may  be  in  her  she  owes  to  that 
mother's  tender  care  and  beautiful  example." 

As  there  were  yet  many  things  to  be  accomplished, 
Edith  returned  early  to  Mrs.  Harcourt's.  She  took 
leave  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Leslie.  Mary  she  was  to  see 
again,  and  probably  Matilda.  Her  heart  was  light- 
ened of  much  of  its  grief  since  Mr.  Leslie  had 
acknowledged  her  as  Arthur's  future  wife.  His 
former  treatment  had  affected  her  feelings  very 
deeply,  though  she  had  never  complained.  She  was 
glad  this  cloud  had  swept  by,  leaving  glimpses  of  the 
"  blue  serene  "  beyond. 

On  the  way  to  Milton,  Edith  asked  Arthur  why 
he  had  not  informed  her  of  the  adventure  with  the 
dog. 

"  Because,"  he  replied,  "  Mrs.  Leslie  requested  to 
have  as  little  as  possible  said  about  it.  I  took  it  for 
granted,  Mary  would  tell  you ;  and,  above  all,  I  do 


192  EDITH; 

not  like  to  be  the  hero  of  my  own  story.  The  affair 
was  so  sudden,  the  death  of  poor  Leo  so  instanta- 
neous, I  hardly  remember  with  any  degree  of  distinct- 
ness what  did  happen.  I  only  know  I  was  terrified 
lest  the  dog  should  spring  on  Mrs.  Leslie ;  in  which 
case,  I  should  not  have  dared  to  fire,  there  were  so 
many  chances  of  my  shooting  her.  In  almost  an 
agony  of  feeling,  I  pulled  the  trigger ;  and,  when  I 
found  she  was  safe,  I  thanked  God  most  fervently 
that  I  had  been  spared  the  awful  responsibility  in- 
volved by  taking  aim  with  so  little  deliberation." 

The  artist  came  to  take  Edith's  miniature,  which 
proved  as  successful  as  Arthur's.  She  had  deter- 
mined upon  the  manner  of  settling  the  pecuniary 
part.  She  had  sold  her  paintings  in  London,  and, 
if  not  for  their  full  value,  had  been  so  far  remune- 
rated as  to  enable  her  to  arrange  this  little 'matter. 
Accordingly,  she  insisted  on  doing  it;  and,  when 
sent  to  her  lover,  she  told  him  it  was  now  her  gift, 
which  it  could  not  otherwise  have  been.  He  knew 
not,  until  a  long  time  afterwards,  how  the  affair  was 
adjusted. 

A  letter  soon  arrived  from  Capt.  Henly,  announ- 
cing the  28th  of  February  as  his  appointed  day  for 
sailing.  The  ship,  he  wrote,  "  would  be  down  the 
Thames  on  the  morning  of  that  day,  when  he  hoped 
all  would  be  in  readiness."  There  were  but  few 
days  to  intervene.  It  would  be  useless  to  attempt 
describing  the  feelings  of  Mrs.  Courtenay,  Mrs.  Har- 
court,  or  the  younger  members  of  the  family :  a  veil 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  193 

must  be  thrown  over  them.  Mary  Leslie  and  Ma- 
tilda said  farewell,  with  many  tears,  sobs,  and  with 
reserved  promises  of  writing  often. 

The  morning  of  the  28th  dawned  amid  clouds 
and  a  drizzly  rain  ;  but,  as  the  wind  was  fair,  the  cap- 
tain determined  to  sail.  Arthur  had  arrived  in 
Milton  on  the  27th,  and  had  passed  the  day  chiefly  in 
Edith's  society,  using  every  effort  to  cheer  her  droop- 
ing spirits. 

She  arose  on  the  sad  morning  with  an  intolerable 
•weight  at  her  heart,  which  none  can  describe,  though 
all  may  imagine. 

The  breakfast  was  untasted,  even  by  the  children  ; 
for  Margaret  Granville  exercised  very  little  control 
over  her  feelings,  and  her  sorrow  very  naturally 
affected  them. 

Mrs.  Harcourt  and  Mrs.  Courtenay  were  pale  and 
silent.  We  will  not  invade  the  sacredness  of  their 
parting  interview  :  they  hardly  hoped  to  meet  again 
on  earth. 

Edith  left  the  breakfast-room,  and  went  to  the 
parlor,  where,  folding  her  arms  on  the  table,  and  lay- 
ing her  head  upon  them,  she  gave  way  to  an  uncon-v 
trollable  burst  of  grief.  The  sorrow-stricken  girl 
had  exercised  all  the  firmness  she  possessed,  even  to 
the  present  moment.  Nature  demanded  relief,  and 
she  yielded  to  her  feelings.  Arthur  entered  the 
room,  with  a  countenance  deadly  pale,  but  with  a 
firm  step.  He  approached  her  with  great  tenderness. 
"  Edith !  "  he  said,  in  a  voice  hollow  and  tremulous 

17 


194  EDITH; 

from  emotion,  "  Edith,  dearest !  speak  to  me,  and  try 
to  command  yourself,  or  I  shall  feel  I  have  not  done 
my  duty  in  allowing  you  to  go  to  America." 

He  bent  one  knee  on  the  ground,  and,  gently 
raising  her  head  from  the  table,  supported  it  on  his 
shoulder.  He  bowed  his  face,  reverently  it  may  be 
said,  over  her  glossy  ringlets,  as  they  fell  on  his 
breast,  and  clasped  her  fondly  in  his  arms.  Tears 
of  bitterness,  of  intense  suffering,  were  on  the  droop- 
ing head.  Never,  until  this  moment,  had  he  realized 
how  dear  she  was  to  him.  Superior  to  all  romantic 
display  of  attachment,  exhibited  in  the  hackneyed 
expressions  of  "  never-dying  love,"  "  eternal  con- 
stancy," his  soul  was  in  his  words  as  he  whispered, 
"  Edith !  you  are  mine,  by  every  sacred  feeling,  by 
the  approval  of  friends,  by  the  sanction  of  Heaven. 
Distance,  absence,  separation,  will  affect  no  change, 
except  to  strengthen  our  ties.  You  go  in  the  strict 
performance  of  duty  :  there  seemed  no  other  path 
for  you.  I  will  cheerfully  resign  you  until  the  time 
when  I  can  claim  you  as  my  wife.  I  will  hasten  that 
time  by  devotion  to  my  studies,  and  exertions  to 
gain  a  suitable  maintenance  for  you." 

She  raised  her  dark  eyes  to  his  face,  and  saying, 
solemnly,  "  I  will  strive  to  prove  myself  worthy  of 
your  affection,  of  you,"  rose  from  her  seat,  and  com- 
menced preparations  for  going  on  board.  He  threw 
her  cloak  over  her,  started  as  the  captain's  voice 
in  the  hall  sounded  "  Trunks  all  on  board ! "  and, 
placing  her  arm  in  his,  they  entered  the  room  to  take 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  195 

leave  of  Mrs.  Harcourt  and  Margaret.  Jenny  and 
the  two  girls  were  already  in  the  hall. 

"Why  prolong  the  scene  ?  The  carriage  was  wait- 
ing to  convey  them  to  Gravesend,  about  a  mile,  where 
they  were  to  embark. 

Notwithstanding  the  rain,  a  number  of  the  poorer 
class  of  people  had  assembled  on  the  quay  to  catch  a 
parting  glance  of  their  benevolent  friends.  The  boat 
•was  waiting :  all  stepped  on  board,  and,  in  a  few 
minutes,  were  alongside  the  "  Galatea."  The  clouds 
had  partially  cleared,  and  glimpses  of  sunlight  were 
occasionally  seen.  The  deck  of  the  ship  was  so  slip- 
pery and  wet  as  hardly  to  allow  foothold. 

The  moment  had  arrived  for  the  passengers'  friends 
to  go  on  shore.  Arthur  was  the  last  to  leave.  He 
stood  in  the  stern,  his  head  uncovered :  the  faint 
glimmer  of  sunlight  played  around  his  hair,  as  the 
curls  stirred  in  the  breeze ;  and,  as  the  ship  swung 
round  with  the  ebb  tide,  he  waved  his  hat,  till  he 
was  soon  too  near  the  shore  to  be  recognized. 

Slowly  the  ship's  topsails  were  hoisted,  and  sheeted 
home  j  the  windlass  was  manned  ;  and,  simultaneous 
with  the  "  Heave  yo  !  heave,  heave,  men  !  "  of  the 
sailors,  the  heavy  flapping  of  the  sails,  and  the  rat- 
tling of  ropes,  was  heard  the  rough  voice  of  the  pilot, 
"  Run  up  the  jibs  there  !  "  In  a  moment,  the  un- 
chained vessel  was  seen  moving  along  on  her  course. 

Unaccustomed  to  such  sounds,  and  to  so  much 
confusion,  poor  Mrs.  Courtenay  was  half-stunned ; 
and  turning  with  tearful  eyes  towards  Tilbury  Fort, 


I 

196  EDITH; 

for  a  long,  last  look,  she,  with  her  family,  prepared 
to  go  below.  All  who  have  been  at  sea,  who  have 
left  home,  kindred,  friends,  can  realize  what  a  solemn 
hour  it  was.  No  one  spoke.  Articulation  was  denied 
Edith  :  she  tried  to  utter  a  few  words  to  her  mother ; 
but  they  died  on  her  lips.  She  kept  her  eyes  fixed 
on  the  retreating  shore  until  they  were  so  blinded  by 
tears,  all  was  misty  and  shadowy  as  the  destiny 
before  her.  They  passed  down  the  gangway  into 
the  cabin. 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  197 


CHAPTER     XXX. 


'  Adieu !  adieu !    My  native  land 

Fades  o?er  the  waters  blue : 
The  night-wind  sighs,  the  breakers  roar, 

And  shrieks  the  wild  sea-mew. 
Yon  sun,  that  sets  upon  the  sea, 

We  follow  in  his  night : 
Farewell,  awhile,  to  him  and  thee. 

My  native  land,  '  Good-night!  '  " 


THEY  were  on  the  sea,  —  the  lonely  wife,  with  her 
children ;  the  noble  girl,  whose  self-sacrificing  and 
grateful  nature  had  led  her  to  resign  the  dearest 
object  of  her  affections,  and  traverse  an  ocean  to  a 
foreign  land,  that  she  might  cheer  and  comfort  her 
adopted  parent  in  her  hours  of  adversity  and  trial. 
Her  well-balanced  mind  had  never  shrunk  from  duty ; 
and,  calling  into  action  all  the  energies  of  her  cha- 
racter, she  committed  herself  to  "  Him  who  spread- 
eth  out  the  heavens,  and  ruleth  the  raging  of  the 
sea ;  "  then  calmly  took  her  mother's  hand,  and,  pass- 
ing it  under  her  arm,  conducted  her  to  her  state- 
room, and,  ere  the  pilot  left,  had  written  a  few  lines 
to  Arthur  and  Mrs.  Harcourt,  assuring  them  all  were 
well,  and  as  cheerful  as  they  could  be  after  the  try- 
ing scenes  of  the  morning. 

17* 


198  EDITH; 

There  were  but  few  passengers,  and  those  not 
very  interesting  people.  Of  course,  no  great  de- 
mands were  made  upon  our  little  party  for  their 
sakes. 

Twenty  days  passed  on,  as  days  usually  do  at  sea, 
in  vain  efforts  to  be  happy  in  the  midst  of  noise,  — 
that  longing  for  rest,  if  only  for  one  hour ;  for  a  pause 
from  the  ceaseless  motion  of  the  ship ;  the  alternate 
rolling,  pitching,  heaving ;  and,  at  times,  seeming  to 
flounder  among  the  waves. 

Many  discomforts  attended  the  passage,  which  were 
hard  to  be  endured.  At  one  time,  serious  fears  of  a 
mutiny,  so  strong  a  feeling  of  disaffection,  appeared 
among  the  sailors ;  at  another,  a  heavy  sea  was 
shipped,  which  swept  from  the  deck  much  of  the 
live-stock,  and  came  dashing  into  the  cabin :  one  of 
the  deadlights  was  knocked  in  by  it ;  and,  for  some 
time,  the  second  mate  and  the  steward  were  unable 
to  fit  in  another,  to  keep  out  the  tumultuous  waves. 
The  little  girls,  however,  enjoyed  much  in  fine 
weather.  They  walked,  with  their  mother  and 
Edith,  on  the  quarter-deck ;  sat  on  the  hen-coops, 
to  talk  with  the  poultry,  or,  leaning  over  the  taff- 
rail,  watched  the  waves  or  the  dolphins :  the  latter 
they  often  saw  on  the  "  Banks."  Among  the  few 
pleasant  scenes  on  shipboard,  was  the  sight  of  the 
full  moon,  as  it  rose,  one  evening,  from  the  sea.  It 
was  the  first  time  Edith  had  seen  so  grand  and  beau- 
tiful a  scene.  She  was  perfectly  delighted,  and  stood 
leaning  over  the  ship's  side,  gazing  with  holy  admi- 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  199 

ration  on  the  full  orb  which  slowly  appeared  from 
the  depths  of  ocean.  Silent  and  awe-struck  at  the 
splendor  of  the  view,  she  watched  the  long  line  of 
light,  the  sea  spreading  out  in  every  direction,  bound, 
less  in  extent,  and  almost  as  smooth  as  a  mirror ;  a 
few  little  waves  quietly  dashing  the  ship's  sides  as 
she  gently  sped  on  her  way.  The  sailors  were 
lounging  on  the  deck,  in  the  evening- watch ;  the 
helmsman  was  whistling  the  air  of  "  Black-eyed 
Susan ; "  while  the  chief  officer  paced  the  quarter- 
deck, puffing  his  cigar.  The  tranquillity,  so  per- 
fectly in  unison  with  Edith's  feelings,  was  most 
soothing.  Her  thoughts  were  beyond  the  sea:  her 
lips  murmured  the  name  of  Arthur,  but  in  tones  too 
low  to  reach  any  human  ear.  She  turned  her  eyes 
from  the  ocean  to  the  star-spangled  heavens,  and  felt 
there  she  was  heard,  there  her  petitions  for  his  happi- 
ness were  registered.  Her  meditations  were  inter- 
rupted by  the  sudden  appearance  of  the  captain,  who 
good-humoredly  said,  "  Miss  Dacres,  you  are  just  the 
one  to  go  to  sea,  —  no  sickness,  and  so  pleased 
always  to  look  about  and  enjoy  every  thing." 

"  I  do  enjoy  some  few  things ;  and,  if  Mr.  Cour- 
tenay  were  only  here,  I  should  be  much  more  happy  : 
but  poor  mamma  is  so  sad  without  him  !  " 

"  Well,"  replied  the  kind-hearted  man,  "  in  a  fort- 
night, I  hope,  you  will  all  be  together."  "All?" 
Edith  internally  murmured.  "All?  No,  not  all!  " 
She  found  the  night-air  was  becoming  too  cold  ;  and, 
at  that  moment,  Jenny's  voice  sounded  from  the 


200  EDITH; 

gangway,  "Miss  Edith,  your  mamma  fears  you  are 
imprudent,  and  will  take  cold :  she  begs  you  to 
come  below." 

The  next  morning,  a  beautiful  ship  was  seen  in 
the  distance.  The  wind  was  very  fresh,  —  what  sail- 
ors call  a  stiff  breeze.  In  a  short  time,  however,  the 
captain  of  the  "Galatea"  was  able  to  speak  her; 
learned  she  was  from  Boston,  bound  to  Dublin ;  but 
did  not  think  the  name  of  his  ship  could  be  heard. 
Signals  were  exchanged  :  they  passed  on. 

What  had  been  Mrs.  Courtenay's  feelings  had  she 
known  her  husband  and  son  were  passengers  in  that 
ship?  —  that,  at  the  very  time  her  eyes  were  gazing 
on  her,  as  she  swiftly  "  winged  her  way,"  his  own, 
and  those  of  her  son,  were  unconsciously  directed 
towards  the  same  object,  which  contained  all  that 
was  dear  to  him  in  the  universe  ?  They  were  mer- 
cifully spared  an  aggravation  of  feeling  which  it 
would  have  required  almost  superhuman  fortitude 
to  have  borne.  Not  to  have  met  for  so  long  a  time, 
and  to  have  passed  each  other  on  the  ocean !  Too, 
too  sad ! 

The  day  of  the  7th  of  April  closed  with  heavy 
clouds.  The  wind  roared  in  the  rigging,  —  a  dis- 
mally prophetic  sound.  The  captain  made  all  pre- 
paration for  an  approaching  storm  :  he  frequently 
entered  the  cabin,  announcing  the  state  of  the  wea- 
ther, evidently  trying  to  maintain  his  cheerfulness. 
As  night  approached,  the  wind  blew  violently,  as 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  201 

might  be  well  understood,  by  those  below,  from  the 
rolling  of  the  ship,  and  the  tumult  on  deck. 

The  first  hours  of  the  night  dragged  wearily  oh. 
Mrs.  Courtenay  refused  to  go  to  her  berth ;  and 
Edith,  with  devoted  tenderness,  remained  by  her 
side,  watching  every  change  in  her  face,  and  making 
all  efforts  in  her  power  to  keep  up  her  spirits. 

The  weather  had  been  hazy  for  many  days  ;  and 
no  observation  had,  of  course,  been  taken :  but 
Capt.  Henly  thought  he  had  seen  Boston  Light  the 
evening  of  the  6th,  at  a  time  when  the  mist  had 
partially  cleared.  Then,  as  the  wind  increased,  he 
stood  out  to  sea,  dreading  any  attempt  to  run  in  with 
a  sky  so  threatening.  By  daylight,  on  the  8th,  the 
snow  fell  thick  and  fast.  The  ship  was  lying-to, 
under  close-reefed  topsails,  but  drifting,  two  miles 
an  hour,  no  one  knew  whither.  The  danger  was  of 
Scituate  Rocks  or  Nantasket  Beach. 

About  eight  o'clock,  A.M.,  Edith  entered  the  chil- 
dren's state-room,  urging  them  to  remain  quietly  in 
their  berths,  as  they  would  find  it  difficult  to  stand. 
She  reported  them  to  their  mother  as  wholly  uncon- 
scious of  danger. 

The  storm  soon  became  appalling.  The  howling 
of  the  wind ;  the  straining  of  the  masts ;  the  roar- 
ing of  the  sea,  as  it  lashed  the  ship's  sides  or  dashed 
over  the  bulwarks,  —  were  terrific. 

Mrs.  Courtenay  and  Jenny  tried  to  steady  them- 
selves by  grasping  a  settee  securely  stanchioned  ; 
the  former,  her  countenance  ghastly  pale,  looking 


EDITH; 

eagerly  towards  Capt.  Henly,  as  he  stood  for  a 
minute  before  the  grate,  warming  his  hands,  and 
shaking  the  snow  from  his  cap. 

Edith  had  preserved  her  presence  of  mind,  re- 
membering all  that  was  required  of  her  ;  but  now, 
startled  by  the  expression  of  the  captain's  face,  she 
inquired,  "  What  is  the  matter  ?  Are  we  in  danger 
of  shipwreck,  and  so  near  our  port  ?  "  —  "  There  is 
always  danger,"  he  answered,  "  in  a  snow-storm  on 
this  coast ;  but  I  think  we  shall  weather  the  gale." 

At  that  moment,  the  chief  mate's  voice  was  heard 
in  the  companion-way,  calling,  "  Captain  !  "  "  Ay, 
ay  !  "  And,  in  a  second,  he  was  on  deck. 

Another  moment,  and  a  heavy  sea  struck  the  ship, 
and  came  running  down  the  gangway  into  the  cabin, 
rolling  and  surging  over  trunks  and  other  things  in 
the  way.  The  commotion  was  fearful.  All  were 
bewildered  by  this  unexpected  rush  of  water.  The 
passengers  were  dashed  against  the  berths,  or  sent, 
staggering,  on  to  the  settees,  &c.  The  worst  was 
over.  The  storm  appeared  to  lull,  at  intervals,  long 
enough  to  allow  the  passengers  to  speak  to  each 
other.  A  melancholy  group  did  the  cabin  present. 
A  French  lady  put  her  head  out  of  the  door  of  her 
stateroom,  inquiring,  "  Quel  temps  fait  il  aujour- 
d'hui  ?  "  Caroline  and  Marion  had  just  entered  the 
cabin.  The  former  answered,  as  she  shivered  before 
the  grate,  "  II  a  beaucoup  neige  la  nuit  passee,  il 
faut  un  vent  bien  froid." 

"  Mon  Dieu !  "  said  Madame  G.  ;  and  the  door 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  203 

was  closed.  Most  fortunately,  she  little  realized  the 
peril.  With  an  impulse  not  very  common  now  to 
Edith's  character,  she  wanted  to  see  the  danger ;  and, 
passing  up  the  companion-way,  she  was  horror-struck 
at  the  scene  before  her,  —  the  deck  covered  with 
snow ;  the  air  filled  with  it,  except  where  the  sud- 
den gusts  of  wind  seemed  to  separate  the  flakes, 
admitting  openings  for  the  sea  to  be  visible,  and 
revealing  the  waves,  literally  "  mountains  high." 
Her  emotion  was  extreme.  She  stood  clinging  to 
the  balustrade,  gazing  upon  the  fearful  sight,  her 
dark  hair  blown  in  wild  disorder  by  the  gale ;  and 
her  large  eyes,  so  fearfully  distended,  lent  to  her 
appearance  the  air  of  the  presiding  Genius  of  the 
storm.  The  captain  perceived  her ;  and,  ere  she 
was  prepared  or  aware  of  it,  he  raised  her  in  his 
arms,  and,  landing  her  in  the  cabin,  sternly  said, 
"  Stay  below,  or  I  shall  order  the  companion-way 
closed."  She  had  just  been  missed.  The  cabin 
was  so  dimly  lighted,  it  was  hardly  possible  to  tell 
who  was  present.  She  went  to  her  mother,  and, 
kneeling  before  her,  took  her  hands  in  hers,  and 
seemed  to  look  to  her  for  comfort  in  such  an  hour. 
The  two  girls  had  taken  alarm  at  the  gloomy  ap- 
pearance of  all  around  them,  and  hung  round  Jenny 
as  if  for  protection.  Jenny  had  no  fears.  She  had 
said,  repeatedly,  she  knew  all  would  end  well ;  and, 
indeed,  others  began  to  feel  the  storm  was  subsiding, 
because  it  did  occasionally  pause.  Thus  passed  the 
day,  amid  the  alternations  of  hope  and  fear. 


204  EDITH; 

Towards  evening,  the  snow  ceased.  Capt.  Henly, 
with  something  like  a  smile  upon  his  face,  came  to 
the  table  for  supper.  He  bade  all  be  of  good 
cheer,  saying,  — 

"  I  trust  to-morrow  may  see  us  in  a  snug  berth  at 
Long  Wharf.  The  *  Galatea '  has  borne  the  gale 
gallantly.  She  has  lost  nothing  but  a  part  of  the 
taffrail,  when  she  shipped  the  heavy  sea.  As  for 
you,  Miss  Edith,  you  are  quite  a  heroine.  Who 
could  have  expected  to  see  a  young  lady  dare  to  put 
her  head  above  the  deck  in  such  a  storm  ?  " 

As  the  night  advanced,  Mrs.  Courtenay  was 
obliged  to  go  to  her  state-room.  She  had  borne  up 
nobly  while  the  danger  lasted,  but  was  now  entirely 
exhausted.  Edith  remained  by  her  for  some  time, 
and  then  retired  to  her  own  berth,  where  she  fer- 
vently thanked  God  for  his  mercies,  vouchsafed  to 
all,  in  preserving  them  amid  such  imminent  peril. 
About  midnight,  there  was  a  cry  of  "  Land,  ho  !  " 
Then  came  the  captain's  happy  announcement,  that 
the  clouds  were  breaking,  the  stars  appearing,  and 
the  wind  north-west.  From  state-room  to  state- 
room echoed  the  glad  tidings.  All  wished  each 
other  joy.  No  one  seemed  to  remember  aught  had 
occurred  to  mar  their  happiness  during  the  passage. 
A  feeling  of  deep  sympathy  united  the  passengers  in 
one  common  bond  of  union. 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  205 


CHAPTER    XXXI. 


"  Bright  flag  at  yonder  tapering  mast ! 
Fling  out  your  field  of  azure  blue ; 
Let  '  star  and  stripe  '  be  westward  cast, 
And  fly  as  Freedom's  eagle  flew." 


IN  the  morning,  how  changed  was  the  scene  !  Gloom 
had  disappeared  from  every  face,  and  bright  smiles 
taken  its  place.  The  two  girls  rushed  to  their  mo- 
ther's embrace  ;  and,  as  she  kissed  their  glowing 
clieeks,  they  exclaimed,  "  Papa  will  give  us  the 
next  kiss ! "  Edith  shared  their  happiness ;  for 
she,  too,  longed  to  see  Mr.  Courtenay.  And  as  to 
her  mother,  she  seemed  wholly  changed :  her  eyes 
looked  bright,  as  if  sorrow  had  never  dimmed  them  ; 
and,  when  dressed  to  go  on  shore,  Edith  thought 
she  had  never  seen  her  look  more  lovely.  The 
"  Galatea  "  sailed  proudly  among  the  beautiful  islands 
of  Boston  Harbor,  some  of  which  were  partially  co- 
vered by  the  recent  snow ;  while  spots  of  green,  ap- 
pearing in  striking  contrast,  gave  great  interest  to  the 
scene.  The  passengers  all  seemed  delighted  with 
the  uncommon  beauty  of  these  islands  and  the  forts. 
"When  the  pilot  came  on  board,  there  was  a  feeling 

18 


206  EDITH; 

of  disappointment  that  Mr.  Courtenay  was  not  with 
him.  As  the  ship  had  had  a  passage  of  six  weeks, 
of  course  much  anxiety  must  have  been  felt  for  her 
in  the  storm ;  and  his  family  were  almost  sure  he 
would  not  lose  one  moment  of  his  happiness  in 
knowing  they  were  safe.  But  the  pilot  appeared 
not  to  know  any  thing  of  him. 

Capt.  Henly  told  Edith  he  would  inquire  of  the 
newspaper-editors,  when  they  came  on  board,  as  the 
persons  most  likely  to  give  the  desired  information. 
In  a  short  time,  he  communicated  to  her  the  over- 
whelming intelligence,  that  "  Mr.  Courtenay  had 
sailed  for  Ireland  three  weeks  before  "  !  She  was 
perfectly  thunderstruck.  What  was  to  be  done  ? 
How  could  she  break  this  unexpected  and  painful 
news  to  her  mother  ?  But  it  must  be  told,  and  im- 
mediately ;  for  every  moment's  delay  would  but 
increase  her  inability  to  perform  the  task. 

With  all  possible  gentleness,  she  announced  the 
disappointment  of  the  eager  hopes  so  long  indulged, 
—  hopes  which  had  buoyed  the  family  up  in  danger, 
even  in  dismay,  during  the  recent  storm.  Mrs. 
Courteuay  struggled  against  her  adverse  fate  with 
the  firmness  which  marked  her  character  ;  but,  when 
Edith  urged  her  to  retire  to  her  state-room  until  she 
could  talk  again  with  the  captain,  she  endeavored  to 
rise,  and,  in  the  effort,  fell  senseless  into  Edith's 
arms.  She  was  supported  by  her  faithful  young 
friend  and  Jenny  to  a  settee,  where  they  applied 
restoratives.  For  some  time,  she  continued  insensi- 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  207 

ble.  Edith  became  alarmed ;  but  life  gradually  re- 
turned. Her  lips  quivered  convulsively ;  the  color 
came  back  to  her  cheeks ;  and,  on  opening  her 
eyes,  she  asked,  "  Where  is  my  husband  ?  " 

Edith  repeated  what  she  had  already  told  her,  but 
with  this  addition,  that  there  were  several  gentlemen 
on  board,  friends  of  Mr.  Courtenay,  who  could  pro- 
bably throw  some  light  on  the  affair.  From  them 
she  learned,  that,  by  one  of  those  vicissitudes  in 
mercantile  life  which  frequently  occur,  Mr.  Courte- 
nay had  been  called  upon  to  settle  some  business  in 
Ireland,  in  which  his  presence  was  very  highly  impor- 
tant. He  immediately  wrote  his  wife  not  to  embark 
in  the  "  Galatea ;  "  explained  to  Capt.  Henly  the 
alteration  in  his  plans.  Mrs.  Courtenay  was  to  go  to 
Holyhead,  where  her  husband  would  meet  her  and 
the  family,  and  all  return  to  the  United  States  in  the 
ship  which  conveyed  him  out.  The  vessel  which 
carried  these  letters  had  not  reached  England  when 
the  "  Galatea  "  sailed :  her  passage  had  been  unusu- 
ally long,  it  was  presumed.  Mr.  Courtenay  was 
expected  to  return  by  the  1st  of  June.  He  had  left 
letters  with  an  intimate  friend,  to  be  delivered  to 
his  wife,  if  it  should  unfortunately  occur  that  she 
had  left  England  ere  she  heard  from  him.  He  had 
endeavored  to  guard  against  all  additional  anxiety  to 
what  she  must  have  already  endured  in  their  long 
separation  ;  but  his  precautions  had  been  in  vain,  as 
the  event  proved. 

The    disappointment  was   indeed   dreadful ;    but 


208  EDITH; 

Edith  now  felt  the  importance  of  having  followed 
out  the  path  of  duty,  and  above  all  did  she  feel  the 
approbation  of  her  own  heart  in  the  sacrifice  she  had 
made.  What  had  been  Mrs.  Courtenay's  situation 
without  her  ?  The  children  were  still  too  young  to 
be  able  to  cheer  or  support  their  mother's  drooping 
spirits ;  while  Edith's  efficient  and  resolute  character 
made  her  equal  to  any  emergency. 

The  family  found  many  friends,  who  kindly  urged 
them  to  be  their  guests  until  they  could  find  a  per- 
manent home ;  but  Mrs.  Courtenay  felt  it  was  too 
great  a  tax  upon  any  one's  hospitality,  and  went  to 
a  private  boarding-house,  until  she  could  subdue  her 
feelings  into  something  like  tranquillity.  In  the 
midst  of  disappointed  expectations,  there  was  no  for- 
getfulness  of  the  disastrous  fate  they  had  escaped. 
The  pilot  had  been  heard  to  say,  "  Had  not  the  wind 
chopped  round  north-west  as  it  did,  probably  not 
one  had  been  left  to  tell  the  tale  of  suffering  on 
board."  Of  course,  Mrs.  Courtenay  was  deeply 
grateful  that  they  had  been  spared.  She  spoke  to 
the  children,  with  reverential  gratitude,  of  the  mer- 
cies vouchsafed  them,  and  was  soon  able  to  hold  out 
the  hope  of  a  re-union  with  their  father  and  brother. 

Not  long  after  the  arrival  of  the  "Galatea,"  a 
package  was  received  from  Mrs.  Harcourt,  forward- 
ing the  letters  from  Mr.  Courtenay,  which  arrived 
the  very  next  day  after  the  ship  sailed.  She  had 
learned  the  change  of  plans,  and  was  exceedingly 
grieved  at  the  delay  of  these  letters.  "  Of  course," 


OK,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  209 

she  wrote,  "  nothing  could  be  done.  My  disap- 
pointment and  grief  have  been  great  at  the  trial 
which  awaited  you  on  your  arrival.  I  daily  offer 
my  prayers  for  you  and  the  dear  ones  around  you. 
I  trust,  ere  this  reaches  Boston,  you  will  be  safely  on 
shore,"  &c.  Edith,  too,  was  happy  in  receiving  long 
letters  from  Arthur  :  so  cheering  were  they  to  her 
heart,  that  she  already  began  to  feel  bright  and 
hopeful. 

The  spring  was  very  backward :  no  signs  of  ve- 
getation, except  a  few  green  spots  in  the  fronts  of 
houses.  The  young  people  were  struck  with  the 
barren  appearance  of  all  around  ;  for,  on  leaving 
England,  the  fields  were  green,  the  early  peas  quite 
high  out  of  the  ground,  &c. 

Marion,  who  was  a  very  observing  child,  with 
very  quick  perceptions,  inquired  of  Jenny  where 
the  Indians  were.  Poor  Jenny's  brain  was  racked 
for  a  reply,  but  at  length  said,  "  Why,  they  are  all 
gone  west,  I  believe.  I  have  heard  of  their  going 
towards  the  setting  sun  ;  but  your  mamma  says  they 
once  lived  where  all  these  brick  houses  now  stand : 
this  place  was  once  a  forest."  The  little,  girl,  at 
times,  seemed  to  feel  a  strong  interest  in  the  colored 
people.  She  had  never  seen  one  until  she  came 
to  Boston,  and,  as  she  met  them  in  the  streets, 
would  whisper  to  Jenny,  "  How  like  satin  their 
faces  are,  —  so  glossy !  and  what  beautiful  white 
teeth  they  have !  I  know  they  are  kind  to  little 
girls ;  for  mamma  says  they  love  children  very 

18* 


£10  EDITH; 

much,  and  are  always  gentle  towards  them.  You  are 
not  always  gentle,  you  know,  Jenny,  when  I  tear 
my  frocks,  are  you  ?  "  Jenny  answered  quickly,  — 

""Well,  if  I  am  not,  I  love  you,  Miss  Marion. 
Sometimes  you  are  careless,  and  make  me  a  great  deal 
of  work.  I  can't  be  good-natured  then ;  and  I  don't 
believe  a  colored  woman  would,  though  you  do 
think  them  so  gentle." 

Marion  said  no  more. 


OR,    THE    LIGHT   OF    HOME. 


CHAPTER     XXXII. 


"  The  bridegroom  may  forget  the  bride 

Was  made  his  wedded  wife  yestreen ; 
The  monarch  may  forget  the  crown 

That  on  his  head  an  hour  has  been ; 
The  mother  may  forget  the  child 

That  smiles  sae  sweetly  on  her  knee : 
But  I'll  remember  thee,  Glencairn, 

And  a'  that  then  hast  done  for  me." 


A  HOUSE  was  found,  belonging  to  a  friend  of  Mr. 
Courtenay,  which  seemed  exactly  in  accordance  with 
Mrs.  Courtenay's  wishes.  It  was  delightfully  situ- 
ated, in  the  neighborhood  of  Boston,  near  the  sea, 
commanding  delightful  views,  and  sheltered  from 
the  north  winds  by  a  hill  at  the  back.  Edith's  taste 
assisted  in  the  purchase  of  very  plain  furniture.  She 
saved  her  mother  all  the  labor  and  care  she  possibly 
could ;  and,  in  less  than  a  month  after  their  arrival, 

they  were  comfortably  settled  at  D ,  and  the  two 

girls  at  the  academy,  as  day-scholars. 

The  neighbors  were  kindly  attentive;  for  Mrs. 
Courtenay  made  her  house  a  very  attractive  spot. 
It  always  presented  a  scene  of  cheerfulness  ;  and  she 
was  uniformly  so  graceful  and  elegant,  none  could 


EDITH; 

see  her  but  to  admire.  Edith's  loveliness,  too,  was 
now  of  no  common  character.  She  was  almost 
seventeen,  and  so  regal  in  her  movements  as  to 
arrest  attention  wherever  she  appeared.  The  voyage 
had  restored  the  rich  bloom  to  her  cheek ;  and  viva- 
city now  sparkled  in  her  beautiful  black  eyes.  She 
was  no  heroine  of  romance,  to  sit  and  sigh  inces- 
santly at  the  separation  from  her  lover.  She  dwelt 
upon  his  valuable  traits  of  character,  his  deep  love 
for  her,  all  she  owed  him  for  his  beautiful  example, 
but  in  a  very  rational  manner  ;  and  Hope  whispered 
they  should  meet  again,  never  to  part  on  earth.  She 
had  duties  to  perform  in  the  cultivation  of  her  intel- 
lectual powers  ;  her  drawing  and  music  occupied  a 
portion  of  every  day  ;  and  time  passed  so  rapidly, 
that  she  almost  wondered  as  she  saw  the  buds  open- 
ing, the  fields  looking  so  green,  and  the  hepatica  and 
anemone  in  bloom. 

On  the  3d  of  June  came  the  glad  tidings  of  Mr. 
Courtenay's  arrival  off  Boston  Light.  In  less  than 
twelve  hours,  he  was  with  his  family. 

Never  was  joy  equal  to  theirs.  He  was  restored 
to  them  in  good  health  ;  and  Edward  so  grown,  so 
manly,  it  seemed  hardly  possible  to  realize  the 
changes  which  had  taken  place.  All  anxieties  were 
over.  Edith  was  the  only  one  not  perfectly  happy  : 
how  could  she  be  ?  But  she  rejoiced  greatly  in  see- 
ing her  mother  so  delighted.  She  strove  to  subdue 
regret  that  she  was  three  thousand  miles  from  Eng- 
land and  from  Arthur. 


OR,    THE   LIGHT    OF    HOME.  £13 

The  hours  flew  swiftly  during  a  summer  of  un- 
equalled joy.  The  very  trees  and  flowers  seemed  to 
look  bright  as  in  "  merrie  England."  There  were 
no  primroses,  cowslips,  or  jasmines  ;  but  there  were 
fragrant  roses,  scarlet  geraniums,  flourishing  in  the 
garden,  which  had  been  cultivated  for  Mr.  Courte- 
nay's  especial  admiration.  Edith  had  letters  by  every 
arrival,  containing  all  home-news.  Among  other 
things,  she  learned  "  Mrs.  Leslie  had  crowded  Glen- 
dale  with  company,  fashionable  friends  from  London, 
who  had  made  a  complete  overturn  of  all  their  old 
habits.  There  were  continual  parties,  riding,  driv- 
ing, boating,  &c. :  no  hours  for  thought,  no  places 
for  retirement.  My  poor  father  looks  worn  out  by 
this  incessant  confusion :  he  is  much  changed.  How 
different,  dear  Edith,  from  those  rational  and  tran- 
quil pleasures  we  remember,  —  those  quiet  scenes 
in  the  library,  the  cheerful  horseback-rides,  the  strolls 
in  the  woods  !  Mary  sighs  :  but  I  should  not  won- 
der if  she  yet  smiled ;  for  there  is  a  certain  Sir  George 
Thornton,  who  seems  to  find  more  pleasure  in  her 
society  than  in  the  gayety  of  his  cousin's  (Mrs.  Les- 
lie) house.  But  entre  nous. 

"  My  collegiate  studies  will  be  completed  at  Christ- 
mas ;  and  then  I  shall  decide  on  my  profession,  which 
I  think  will  be  the  ministry.  You  will  make  so 
good  a  clergyman's  wife,  I  think  you  are  exactly 
fitted  for  it. 

"  When  we  meet,  how  soon  we  shall  forget  this 
sad  separation  !  Remember,  Edith,  I  am  to  be  imme- 


214  EDITH; 

diately  informed  of  any  change  in  Mr.  Courtenay's 
plans  for  his  family.  I  am  already  growing  impa- 
tient to  hear  if  there  is  any  hope  of  your  return  to 
England." 

There  was  no  prospect  of  it  yet,  as  she  felt  her 
position  was  just  such  as  to  make  it  proper  for  her 
to  remain  where  she  was  until  some  definite  arrange- 
ment of  Mr.  Courtenay's  business  should  settle  the 
home  of  his  family  either  in  the  United  States  or 
England.  She  could  not  always  suppress  her  feel- 
ings ;  and  a  tear  would  occasionally  fall  on  the 
miniature  or  the  ring,  as  she  turned  to  them  for  a 
stimulus  to  greater  effort :  the  talismanic  power  of 
the  latter  was  often  felt.  She  had  promised  Arthur 
to  try  to  be  cheerful ;  and  she  scrupulously  performed 
her  promise.  She  was  becoming  quite  interested  in 
her  new  home.  She  liked  the  frank,  independent 
spirit  of  the  Americans ;  rejoiced  to  see  so  little 
poverty  and  wretchedness  among  the  lower  ranks. 
"  Every  rood  of  ground  maintained  its  man."  All 
seemed  cheerful  and  contented  :  every  laborer  was 
apparently  satisfied  with  his  wages ;  returned  from 
his  day's  work  to  a  comfortable  home,  a  clean  hearth, 
tidy  wife  and  children,  good,  wholesome  meals ;  and 
there  was  a  certain  self-reliance  she  had  not  always 
seen  in  her  native  land,  —  a  land  which  she  fondly 
loved,  and  of  which  she  was  justly  proud,  even 
when  she  deplored  the  state  of  things  — 

"  Whore  wealth  accumulates,  and  men  decay." 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  215 

Edith  often  walked  with  Caroline  and  Marion 
down  to  the  seaside ,*  and,  while  they  looked  for 
pebbles  and  seaweeds,  she  would  sit  on  one  of  the 
bold  projections  of  rock  often  jutting  out  at  sea,  and 
let  her  fancy  travel  to  Glendale,  to  dear  Mary  and 
Matilda,  then  to  the  student  at  Cambridge ;  and  as 
the  waves  gently  laved  the  beach,  and  broke  in  low 
murmurs  at  her  feet,  she  would  again  and  again 
breathe  forth  the  name  of  Arthur  !  Arthur  !  Might 
not  the  western  breeze  have  wafted  that  sound  across 
the  Atlantic?  for  has  not  the  inquiry  been  made, 
"Who  can  trace  the  orbit  of  a  word?"  She  was 
occasionally  adventurous  enough  to  go  to  the  beach 
in  cloudy  and  gloomy  mornings  to  watch  the  ocean 
when  its  dark  waves  came  rolling  in,  with  foamy, 
crested  tops,  until  they  dashed  against  the  rocks, 
and  rolled  heavily  back  to  the  mighty  deep,  to  bear 
proud  navies  on  its  bosom,  —  ay,  and  perhaps  to 
ingulf  some  devoted  ship  and  its  helpless  crew. 
She  often  recalled  the  scene  at  Margate,  when  she 
was  with  the  children  in  the  sudden  storm,  and 
turned  with  a  shudder  from  the  memory  of  what  she 
then  suffered.  Her  long  walks,  and  disregard  of 

weather,  astonished  the  female  inhabitants  of  D , 

who  seldom  roamed  abroad  unless  in  bright  sunshine  ; 
but  her  gentle  manners  and  dignified  carriage  soon 
made  her  a  general  favorite.  The  good-natured 
salutation  given  by  an  honest  farmer  always  received 
a  courteous  answer ;  and  the  children  of  the  village 
had  learned  to  love  her  so  well,  that  they  continually 


EDITH  J 

brought  her  bunches  of  wild  flowers,  tastefully 
arranged,  which  she  delighted  to  copy.  Her  cham- 
ber was  seldom  without  these  treasures  of  the  woods 
and  fields.  Her  sanctum,  as  she  called  it,  was  fitted 
up  at  her  own  expense,  and  with  that  union  of  sim- 
plicity and  taste  which  speaks  of  true  refinement  of 
mind.  Her  little  property  was,  in  the  United  States, 
ample  for  all  her  personal  requirements,  and  allowed 
her  the  privilege  of  finding  many  comforts  for  the  sick. 
Her  benevolence,  indeed,  extended  to  all  within  her 
influence ;  and  her  mother  often  smilingly  said, 
"  You  are  becoming  a  '  Man  of  Ross.'  How  is  it, 
my  dear  Edith,  your  small  income  holds  out  to  such 
an  extent  ?  " 

"  Because,  mamma,  you  brought  me  up ;  and  I 
try  to  be  a  little  like  you.  I  can  remember  so  many 
instances  of  your  benevolent  kindness  to  the  poor 
and  suffering,  in  Milton,  that  my  humble  donations 
appear  as  nothing  in  comparison.  All  I  can  hope  is 
the  spirit  in  which  they  are  bestowed  will  be  received 
by  Him  who  looks  into  the  hearts  of  his  children." 

About  the  middle  of  August,  a  gentleman  by  the 
name  of  Henderson  came  to  Mr.  Courtenay's,  with 
credentials  from  a  merchant  in  Smyrna,  and  other 
letters  from  Mr.  Granville  in  Malta.  He  was  young, 
accomplished,  and  exceedingly  gentleman-like  in  his 
deportment ;  of  course,  quite  a  valuable  addition  to 
Mr.  Courtenay's  family.  He  remained  with  them 
several  weeks,  as  the  friends  from  whom  he  brought 
letters  were  anxious  every  attention  should  be  shown 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME. 

him ;  and  Mr.  Courtenay  made  great  efforts  to  render 
his  house  a  pleasant  home  for  him  during  his  visit. 

Mr.  Henderson  saw  a  great  deal  in  Edith  to  respect 
and  admire.  He  seemed  to  derive  extreme  pleasure 
from  her  society,  —  aiding  her  in  her  drawing,  or 
accompanying  her  with  his  flute  when  she  practised 
on  the  piano.  Their  conversation  was  often  of  a 
very  intellectual  character,  and  well  calculated  to 
develop  the  powers  of  Edith's  mind.  It  was  impos- 
sible not  to  be  pleased  with  the  society  of  so  intelli- 
gent and  cultivated  a  person ;  but,  while  Edith  was 
gratified  by  Mr.  Henderson's  attentions,  she  never 
for  a  moment  swerved  from  her  allegiance  to  Arthur, 
to  whom  she  wrote  the  whole  history  of  their  ac- 
quaintance, their  subjects  of  conversation,  &c.  But 
the  greatest  attraction  in  Mr.  Henderson's  familiar 
discourse  were  his  descriptions  of  a  brief  residence  in 
India,  where  he  had  formed  delightful  acquaintances 
and  some  friendships,  which  he  hoped  yet  to  renew 
in  Europe.  He  spoke  with  particular  eloquence  of 
a  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Talbot,  from  England,  "  around 
whose  society,"  he  said,  "  there  hovered  such  a  charm, 
that  he  spent  his  happiest  hours  with  them.  Mrs. 
Talbot  was  an  invalid,  her  health  having  suffered 
from  the  climate.  At  times,  she  was  very  brilliant 
in  conversation,  and  as  often  extremely  dejected. 
There  seemed  to  be  a  sorrow  at  her  heart,  even  while 
her  husband,  by  every  delicate  attention,  tried  to 
cheer  her.  Her  anxiety  for  letters  from  England 
was  intense ;  but  she  never  named  from  whom  she 

19 


218  EDITH; 

received  them.  Usually,  after  an  arrival,  she  was  more 
cheerful ;  and  then,"  observed  Mr.  Henderson,  "  ap- 
peared the  true  beauty  of  her  intellect.  She  gave 
utterance  to  sentiments  so  noble,  so  frank  and  warm- 
hearted, that,  but  for  the  fact  of  her  being  the  wife 
of  my  friend,  I  should  have  found  it  difficult  to  have 
resisted  the  power  of  her  fascinations.  She  fre- 
quently reverted  to  her  early  life,  particularly  her 
school-days ;  dwelt  with  great  affection  on  her  re- 
membrance of  a  lovely  girl,  who,  while  at  school, 
had  exercised  great  influence  over  her.  Whenever 
she  spoke  of  her,  her  whole  heart  seemed  in  the  sub- 
ject ;  but  she  refused  to  say  where  she  had  been 
educated,  or  even  to  name  her  young  friend.  She 
was  very  mysterious  in  many  ways." 

"  You  have  awakened  such  an  interest  in  me,'" 
said  Edith,  one  day,  "  that  I  really  long  to  see  this 
lady.  Shall  I  not  charge  a  little  to  your  vivid  ima- 
gination ?  " 

"  Not  at  all,"  replied  Mr.  Henderson.  "  She  is 
actually  what  I  represent  her :  but,  remember,  I 
never  said  I  thought  her  faultless ;  for  I  know  she 
is  not :  she  is,  at  times,  very  wayward,  and,  I  think, 
occasionally  exercises  too  much  power  over  Talbot, 
who  is  a  noble  fellow,  and  worthy  all  her  affection. 
I  wish,  Miss  Dacres,  she  were  exactly  like  you." 

Edith  changed  the  conversation  ;  for  she  was  very 
reluctant  to  have  any  comparisons  made,  even  to 
her  advantage.  Mr.  Henderson's  deportment  was 
always  marked  by  great  delicacy ;  but,  of  late,  there 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME/  219 

had  been  more  of  tenderness  than  was  desirable  ; 
and,  to  check  at  once  all  progress  towards  attach- 
ment, Mr.  Courtenay  informed  him  of  Edith's  en- 
gagement, and  her  strong  affection  for  Mr.  Leslie. 

From  the  period  of  the  announcement,  his  conduct 
exhibited  more  than  its  accustomed  respect.  He 
seemed  sad,  but  never  made  any  allusion  to  Arthur, 

until  the  morning  he  left  D ,  when,  taking  Edith's 

hand  as  he  bade  farewell,  he  said,  "  Miss  Dacres,  I 
hope  we  shall  meet  again,  even  if  this  hand  should 
be  another's."  ^ 

"  My  kind  wishes  will  attend  you,  Mr.  Hender- 
son. For  all  the  pleasure  and  improvement  I  have 
derived  from  your  society,  I  thank  you ;  and  Mr. 
Leslie  will  feel  equally  gratified." 

Mr.  Henderson's  departure  left  a  void  in  the  fa- 
mily-circle of  the  Courtenays.  Living,  as  they  did, 
in  retirement,  it  was  most  natural  so  elegant  a  man 
should  have  made  a  very  pleasant  impression.  For 
a  day  or  two,  Edith's  drawing  was  full  of  faults  ; 
her  music  was  less  animated.  She  missed  the  sti- 
mulus to  exertion  her  new  friend  had  given  by  his 
judicious  praise ;  but,  above  all,  she  regretted  not 
having  inquired  further  concerning  Mrs.  Talbot, 
about  whom  there  hovered  such  a  charm.  Now  it 
was  too  late :  she  should,  in  all  probability,  never 
see  Mr.  Henderson  again.  He  was  to  visit  the  South- 
ern States,  and  then  return  to  Smyrna.  The  lovely 
Mrs.  Talbot  would,  in  time,  fade  from  her  memory. 

Soon  after  Mr.  Henderson's  departure,  Edith  was 


220  EDITH; 

returning  from  a  morning  walk,  when,  in  passing  a 
cottage  near  her  home,  she  observed  a  man  pacing 
slowly  up  and  down  before  the  door,  as  if  extremely 
debilitated.  He  had  been  noticed  by  her  a  day  or 
two  previous,  but  then  appeared  anxious,  as  she 
thought,  to  escape  observation.  This  morning,  how- 
ever, as  she  approached  him,  he  paused,  and  touched 
his  hat,  when  she  recognized  the  occupant  of  the 
cottage.  There  was  something  attractive  in  his  pale 
face  and  attenuated  frame ;  and  Edith,  after  cour- 
teously returning  his  salutation,  ventured  to  address 
him. 

"  I  am  sorry,  Mr.  Hale,  to  notice  your  feeble  state 
of  health.  Have  you  been  long  ill  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  replied,  sorrowfully.  "  Several  weeks 
since,  I  had  hemorrhage  of  the  lungs  ;  and  it  is  only 
within  a  day  or  two  I  have  been  allowed  to  take  the 
air.  I  have  seen  you  pass  my  windows,  Miss  Dacres, 
and  have  watched  your  firm  step,  so  different  from 
mine  now."  He  stopped,  as  if  his  feelings  were  too 
painful  to  proceed. 

To  divert  his  attention  from  his  illness,  Edith  said, 
"  How  do  you  amuse  your  mind  while  obliged  to  be 
so  much  in  the  house  ?  " 

He  told  her  he  had,  until  recently,  been  able  to 
read,  his  neighbors  having  kindly  lent  him  books ; 
but,  owing  to  an  affection  of  his  eyes,  he  had  been 
obliged  to  relinquish  this  enjoyment ;  "  and  my 
wife,"  he  added,  "  has  too  much  work  to  do,  to  find 
any  time  to  read  to  me." 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME. 

"  How  should  you  like  to  have  me  call  at  your 
house  every  day,  and  read  to  you  for  an  hour  ?  "  in- 
quired the  kind-hearted  girl. 

"  Like  it  1  "  he  eagerly  replied,  as  the  tears  glis- 
tened in  his  eyes,  and  a  light  spread  over  his  wan 
features  ;  "  it  would  make  me  so  happy !  " 

Edith  smiled  benevolently,  and  said,  — 

"  Well,  then,  I  will  try  the  experiment  to-morrow 
morning,  at  ten  o'clock.  And  now,  I  will  say  good- 
by,  as  I  fear  you  have  already  stood  too  long." 

She  kept  her  promise  ;  and,  as  the  morning  was 
chilly  with  an  east  wind,  she  found  the  invalid  less 
well.  He  was  in  his  arm-chair,  carefully  wrapped 
in  a  great-coat,  as  these  searching  winds,  all  know, 
penetrate  every  part  of  a  house.  The  room  wore 
an  air  of  extreme  neatness,  though  bearing  evidence 
of  very  scanty  means.  In  one  of  the  windows  were 
two  flower-pots,  containing  a  scarlet  geranium  and 
rosebush,  both  appearing  as  if  carefully  tended,  and 
indicating  some  degree  of  refinement  in  the  inhabit- 
ants of  the  simple  dwelling. 

From  the  side-window  was  seen  a  little  garden, 
once  gay  with  flowers,  but  now  almost  a  wilderness  ; 
for  the  hands  which  had  cultivated  it  were  power- 
less. 

Mr.  Hale  noticed  Edith's  look  as  she  turned  from 
the  window,  and  said,  despondingly,  — 

"  I  once  took  great  pride  in  my  little  flower-gar- 
den, particularly  in  raising  mignonette,  and  am  trou- 

19* 


EDITH  ; 

bled  by  the  appearance  of  neglect  it  wears.  But 
how  can  I  help  it  ?  " 

She  saw  the  conflict  in  his  mind  between  repining 
and  submission,  and  said,  gently, — 

"  You  must  not  allow  yourself  to  be  troubled  by 
such  things,  but  hope  in  time  all  will  be  well. 
Shall  I  begin  to  read  ?  " 

He  smiled  assent.  She  took  from  the  table  a 
small  Bible,  opened  it,  and,  with  her  clear,  musical 
voice,  read  the  fourteenth  chapter  of  St.  John.  She 
made  no  comments  as  she  closed  the  sacred  volume, 
but  immediately  „  commenced  the  "  Lady  of  the 
Lake,"  as  he  had  informed  her  of  his  admiration  of 
Scott.  She  read  during  the  hour,  and  promised  to 
alternate  with  poetry,  travels,  and  biography. 

With  the  querulous  manner  which  sometimes  at- 
tends consumption,  Mr.  Hale  inquired,  "  Is  it  an 
hour  ? "  Edith  exhibited  her  watch,  pleased  that 
the  time  had  passed  so  quickly  to  the  poor  invalid, 
and,  promising  to  return  to-morrow,  left  him. 

These  visits  to  Mr.  Hale  were  continued  whenever 
his  strength  allowed  him  to  listen  to  Edith's  reading 
without  fatigue ;  bift  there  were  periods  when  he 
was  too  feeble  to  sit  up  or  fix  his  attention.  He 
often  revived  in  the  latter  part  of  the  day ;  and  oc- 
casionally, in  the  long  twilight  of  summer  evenings, 
she  would  pass  a  half-hour  in  entertaining  him  with 
descriptions  of  English  scenery,  English  amuse- 
ments and  customs.  The  invalid  enjoyed  these 
accounts  exceedingly.  Sometimes  she  would,  by 


OR,    THE   LIGHT    OF    HOME. 

gentle,  and  to  him  insensible,  transition,  direct  his 
mind  to  objects  of  higher  interest ; 

"  Allure  to  brighter  worlds,  and  lead  the  way ;  " 

point  out  all  the  benefits  resulting  from  protracted 
illness,  —  its  lessons  of  an  entire  dependence  on  our 
heavenly  Parent,  as  well  as  gratitude  to  our  friends ; 
the  utter  unsatisfactoriness  of  all  earthly  possessions, 
when  the  body  is  prostrate  from  illness  or  racked 
by  suffering.  Above  all  would  she  urge  him  to  con- 
fide his  wife  and  children  to  Him  who  had  promised  to 
be  "a  father  to  the  fatherless,  and  the  widow's  God." 
In  this  way,  a  girl  but  eighteen  years  of  age  had 
power. to  mitigate  suffering,  pour  the  balm  of  conso- 
lation into  an  almost  desponding  heart,  and  smooth 
the  passage  to  the  tomb.  The  invalid  often  com- 
plained of  the  length  of  the  days ;  that  the  hours 
dragged  so  wearily  along,  particularly  as  he  had  no 
timepiece,  and  could  not  hear  the  village-clock. 
His  wife  has  mentioned  this,  and  observed  she  was 
often  obliged  to  leave  the  house  to  ascertain  the 
hour. 

When  Edith  learned  this,  she  determined  to  light- 
en another  burden.  Accordingly,  after  the  close  of 
her  reading,  she  one  morning  took  her  watch  from 
her  side,  and,  placing  it  in  a  little  case  of  her  own 
manufacture,  said  playfully,  — 

"  I  do  not  believe  you  always  know  what  o'clock 
it  is,  Mr.  Hale :  I  shall  therefore  leave  my  watch 
here  until  I  need  it,  only  requiring  you  to  wind  it 


EDITH; 

at  noon.  You  will  then  know  exactly  at  what  time 
to  expect  me ;  and  Jenny  shall  be  as  punctual  in 
sending  your  jelly  or  broth  as  you  will  be  looking 
for  them." 

The  poor  man's  face  brightened  almost  to  radiance 
with  surprise  and  delight.  "  How  am  I  ever  to 
thank  you  for  your  goodness,  Miss  Dacres  ?  " 

"  By  patient  and  cheerful  submission,"  she  said, 
impressively,  "  to  all  your  trials.  I  can  do  but  little 
for  your  comfort ;  but  I  feel  my  efforts  are  Heaven- 
directed." 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME. 


CHAPTER    XXXIII. 


"  Star  of  Hope !  gleam  o'er  the  billow; 
Bless  the  soul  that  sighs  for  thee ; 
Bless  the  sailor's  lonely  pillow, 

Far  at  sea !  " 


AUTUMN  had  succeeded  to  summer.  The  woods  had 
put  on  their  gorgeous  robes  of  purple  and  gold,  pro- 
ducing feelings  of  admiration  and  delighted  surprise 
to  the  Courtenay  family,  who  had  seen  only  the  rus- 
set tints  of  English  foliage.  Edith's  enthusiastic 
love  of  nature  was  amply  gratified :  she  almost 
dreaded  to  have  a  day  pass,  as  lessening  the  beauty 
around  her. 

The  maple,  walnut,  creeper,  blueberry,  were  all 
copied,  to  prove  to  her  friends  in  England  the  rich 
autumn  tints  so  often  described  by  American  poets 
were  no  dreams  of  imagination.  She  spent  hours  in 
painting  every  day,  while  the  leaves  remained  ;  and, 
when  the  last  subject  for  her  pencil  had  departed, 
she  joined  with  her  mother  and  the  children  in  anti- 
cipating a  happy  winter.  In  place  of  the  fogs  and 
heavy  rains  of  England,  they  heard  of  intense  cold, 
of  tremendous  snow-storms,  &c.  Jenny's  apprehen- 


EDITH; 

sions  were,  that  they  could  not  live  in  such  a  climate, 
until  Mrs.  Courtenay  told  her  the  accounts  to  which 
she  had  been  listening  were  highly  exaggerated, 
and  that,  among  the  numerous  English  people  who 
resided  in  the  United  States,  few  had  felt  any  serious 
results  from  the  severity  of  the  winters. 

Mr.  Courtenay  always  returned  early  from  Boston, 
and  had  promised  to  read  aloud  during  the  long 
evenings.  Then  the  merry  sleigh-bells  were  to  be  a 
great  amusement.  The  cheerful  wood-fire,  flaming, 
crackling,  and  flashing,  had  an  effect  so  exciting,  it 
would  be  delightful  to  gather  round  it  at  twilight, 
or  for  the  girls  to  dance  by  its  light  and  Edith's 
music. 

Edward,  too,  was  at  home,  and  always  bright  and 
cheerful.  He  promised  them  some  sleigh-rides. 
Letters  from  England  would  be  doubly  valuable 
when  the  out-of-door  enjoyments  were  curtailed. 
With  so  many  innocent  pleasures  in  perspective, 
who  could  dread  storms  ?  All  was  to  be  sunshine 
at  home  ;  and  the  tempest  might  rage  without,  and, 
but  for  the  sailor,  would  be  unheeded. 

Edith  was  in  her  "  sanctum,"  late  in  October,  giv- 
ing the  finishing  touches  to  a  pencil-sketch,  when 
Marion  suddenly  entered,  exclaiming,  "Letters,  sis- 
ter !  letters  from  England !  " 

There  was  one,  in  a  strange  hand,  sealed  with 
black  ;  but,  as  the  other  was  Arthur's  writing,  she 
was  not  much  alarmed.  On  opening  the  former, 
she  read  as  follows  :  — 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  227 

"  LONDON,  September,  18 — . 

"  Miss  D  ACHES,  —  As  executor  to  the  kte  Mr.  Bolton,  I  hasten 
to  inform  you  of  his  death,  in  the  latter  part  of  July,  and  to  an- 
nounce, that,  in  his  will,  he  mentions  the  sum  of  one  thousand 
pounds,  loaned  by  your  father  many  years  ago ;  which  amount, 
until  lately,  he  has  been  unable  to  refund.  His  particular  request 
was,  that  this  debt,  with  interest,  should  be  paid  to  you  as  soon  as 
possible  after  his  decease.  Accordingly,  you  can  have  said  sum, 
at  any  time,  by  bills  of  exchange  on  London,  at  ten  days'  sight. 
"  Very  respectfully  yours,  &c., 

"  JOHN  STEVENS." 

Arthur's  letter  announced  the  engagement  of  Mary 
to  Sir  George  Thornton ;  an  event  very  pleasing  to 
all,  as  Sir  George  was  a  man  of  great  moral  worth 
and  very  handsome  fortune.  "  Mary,"  he  continued, 
"  has  quite  recovered  her  smiles ;  but,  I  am  sorry  to 
say,  my  father's  health  is  very  indifferent :  he  appears 
at  times  quite  feeble,  and,  I  think,  is  losing  his  inte- 
rest in  the  cultivation  of  his  estate,  which  once  so 
wholly  occupied  him.  Mrs.  Leslie  is  very  attentive 
to  him ;  and  I  cannot  help  rejoicing  that  he  has  in 
his  wife  a  woman  who  is  willing  to  resign  her  love 
of  company,  &c.,  to  devote  herself  to  the  care  of  his 
health. 

"  The  visitors  have  departed,  and  (Mary  writes  me) 
the  house  seems  more  like  the  happy  home  if,  used 
to  be.  There. is  one  wanting,  dearest  Edith,  to  shed 
light  on  it.  "When  I  leave  Cambridge,  I  think  I 
shall  add  to  my  dear  father's  happiness,  as  I  shall 
then  be  able  to  walk  with  him  about  Glen  dale,  urge 
his  riding,"  &c. 


EDITH; 

Edith  left  her  room  to  announce  to  her  mother  the 
good  news  of  her  father's  loan  being  paid.  She  was 
full  of  gratitude  for  this  addition  to  her  property,  and 
knew  how  feelingly  Mrs.  Courtenay  would  sympa-. 
thize  in  her  happiness.  As  she  entered  the  parlor, 
she  was  shocked  to  observe  her  mother  in  tears,  and 
Mr.  Courtenay  pacing  the  room  in  much  apparent 
agitation.  She  stepped  rapidly  towards  him  :  — 

"  What  is  the  matter,  sir  ?  Has  any  thing  hap- 
pened to  distress  mamma  ?  " 

Mr.  Courtenay  exerted  himself  to  say,  — 

"  Yes,  Edith :  I  have  just  announced  to  my  wife 
the  probability  of  my  sailing  for  Malta  immediately, 
on  business  for  Mr.  Granville.  He  is  desirous  of 
going  to  England,  and  cannot  leave  his  mercantile 
affairs  unless  some  one  acquainted  with  the  kind  of 
trade  in  which  he  is  engaged  can  take  his  place. 

"  In  a  letter,  received  this  morning,  he  makes  me 
a  very  advantageous  offer  of  partnership,  which, 
situated  as  I  am,  I  think  I  ought  to  accept.  For  my 
family's"  sake,  I  feel  I  must  go.  I  may  only  be 
absent  a  few- months.  I  need  not  dwell  upon  the 
distress  it  will  be  to  me  r  the  idea  of  another  separa- 
tion is  dreadful.  But,  Edith,  I  am  doing  business 
to  very  little  profit :  my  advantages  in'  becoming  a 
partner  in  Mr.  Granville's  house  will  almost  insure 
prosperity.  Should  I  hesitate,  then  ?  I  am  to  be 
established  here  on  my  return." 

Edith's  courage  sunk  at  this  statement :  all  their 
cheerful  visions  for  the  winter  overthrown,  and  her 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME. 

mother  again  to  be  desolate,  and  in  a  foreign  land, 
denied  the  sympathizing  tenderness  of  Mrs.  Har- 
court,  —  her  comforter  in  previous  hours  of  sorrow ! 
She  turned  from  Mr.  Courtenay  to  her  mother,  un- 
able to  endure  his  look  of  deep  distress ;  but  it  was 
little  consolation,  as  she  heard  her  low  sobs,  and  saw 
her  bowed  in  affliction  too  deep  for  words.  She 
drew  her  head  to  her  bosom,  and,  resting  it  against 
her  beating  heart,  said,  "  Mamma !  dearest  mamma ! 
have  courage ;  for  Mr.  Courtenay's  sake,  be  calm : 
you  will  only  add  to  his  anxieties,  and  make  yourself 
ill.  I  will  do  all  I  can  for  your  happiness  :  do  try 
to  be  comforted !  The  winter  will  soon  be  over ; 
and,  when  spring  returns,  we  shall  be  together 
again."  But  how  vain  were  her  words  !  Her  mo- 
ther seemed  insensible  to  every  thing  but  the  one 
sad  truth,  —  her  husband  was  to  leave  her.  Poor 
Edith's  mind  and  body  ached  with  the  feelings  which 
oppressed  her.  How  was  she  to  support  all  the  anx- 
iety and  thought  in  which  she  should  be  involved? 

She  suddenly  remembered  a  lady  in  the  neighbor- 
hood who  had  been  attentive  and  kind  to  her  mother. 
She  knew  her  a  sensible  woman,  and  felt  she  might 
suggest  some  sources  of  comfort,  which,  in  her  wea- 
ried state  of  feeling,  she  had  not  the  capability 
to  do. 

Mrs.  Lester  came  very  promptly,  and,  by  her 
good  sense  and  strong  powers  of  reasoning,  con- 
vinced Mrs.  Courtenay  of  the  importance  of  firmness 
in  a  case  where  the  advantages  seemed  so  apparent, 

20 


230  EDITH; 

that  any  wife  ought  to  arm  herself  with  sufficient 
fortitude  to  bear  a  separation  of  a  few  months. 
Aided  by  Edith,  she  succeeded  in  restoring  her  to 
some  degree  of  calmness  ;  promised  to  visit  her  often 
during  the  long  winter  evenings  ;  and  took  Caroline 
and  Marion  home  with  her,  to  relieve  their  mother 
of  all  care  for  them  during  the  preparations  for  Mr. 
Courtenay's  departure. 

Of  course,  Edith's  aid  was  in  requisition  in  the 
necessary  outfit  for  a  voyage,  and  her  visits  to  Mr. 
Hale  had  been  occasionally  interrupted ;  but  she 
made  every  effort  to  read  at  least  twenty  minutes, 
assuring  him,  when  Mr.  Courtenay  had  sailed  she 
would  make  up  the  time. 

"  It  will  be  too  late  then,"  he  said,  mournfully. 

"  We  will  hope  not ;  but,  should  this  be  the  allot- 
ment of  God's  providence,  I  trust  you  are  willing  to 
submit,  in  the  full  assurance  that  all  things  are 
ordered  in  Infinite  Wisdom." 

He  covered  his  face  with  his  hands,  and  slowly 
the  tears  trickled  over  his  wan  cheeks :  he  tried  to 
rouse  himself,  as  he  murmured,  "  Yes,  Miss  Dacres, 

I  can  submit ;  but  my  wife,  my  two  boys  " He 

could  say  no  more. 

"  Your  wife,"  Edith  replied,  "  is  active,  energetic, 
and  a  thoroughly  good  woman :  have  no  fears  for 
her.  For  the  next  two  years,  I  will  provide  for  the 
boys :  at  the  end  of  that  time,  they  will  be  able  to 
work  for  themselves.  I  have  unexpectedly  come 
into  possession  of  some  property  ;  and  to  what  better 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  231 

use  can  I  apply  a  part  of  it  than  the  education 

of" Orphans,  she  would  have  said;  but  the 

word  died  on  her  quivering  lips,  and  the  sentence 
remained  unfinished. 

Mr.  Hale's  hands  were  removed  from  his  face  :  his 
eyes  were  lighted  by  almost  supernatural  brightness, 
as  he  solemnly  said,  — 

"  My  God,  thy  will  be  done  !  " 

In  these  few  words  was  Edith's  reward  for  patience, 
effort,  and  firmness.  She  saw  the  mind  of  the  suf- 
ferer was  now  in  a  state  to  bear  humbly  the  impend- 
ing stroke ;  and  her  heart  beat  high  with  gratitude 
at  the  blessed  result  of  her  exertions. 

A  ship  was  fitting  out  for  the  Mediterranean,  to 
sail  in  November,  in  which  Mr.  Courtenay  engaged 
a  passage.  Active  preparations  for  the  voyage  im- 
mediately commenced ;  and  Edith  observed  with 
satisfaction  that  her  mother's  efforts  at  self-govern- 
ment had  been  so  far  successful  that  she  aided  very 
energetically  her  own  labors  on  all  necessary  occa- 
sions. 

A  heavy  burden  of  care  was  on  Mrs.  Courtenay's 
heart,  oppressing  her,  at  times,  very  severely :  but 
she  knew  it  could  be  borne,  if  she  exerted  herself ; 
and,  as  she  saw  Edith's  untiring  energy,  the  springs 
of  her  character  seemed  to  resume  their  wonted 
tension ;  and  she  performed  her  required  duties, 
cheered  by  the  light  of  her  daughter's  sympathy 
and  devoted  affection. 

The  time  of  separation  was  rapidly  approaching. 


EDITH; 

Edward  was  to  accompany  his  father,  and,  if  his 
love  of  the  sea  could  be  conquered,  to  enter  the 
counting-house  of  Mr.  Granville.  Every  thing  was 
now  ready,  the  ship  to  sail  on  the  llth. 

Edith  prepared  herself  for  a  sad  trial  on  the  day 
of  departure,  knowing  how  dreadful  it  would  be  to 
her  mother.  On  the  evening  previous,  the  children 
returned.  Mr.  Courtenay  told  them,  in  the  course 
of  their  conversation,  how  abundant  were  the  islands 
of  the  Mediterranean  in  beautiful  birds,  flowers,  &c. ; 
how  various  the  curiosities  he  should  collect  for 
them ;  and,  with  many  injunctions  to  be  attentive 
to  their  mother  and  sister,  dismissed  them  for  the 
night. 

The  wind  was  fair  in  the  morning.  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Courtenay  went  early  to  Boston.  Knowing 
her  mother's  grief  would  be  increased  by  seeing  her 
emotion,  Edith  determined  not  to  say  farewell. 

In  the  evening,  Mr.  Courtenay  returned,  as  the 
wind  had  changed  to  the  eastward,  and  delayed 
the  ship.  When  he  entered  the  house,  Jenny  met 
him,  and  said,  "  I  am  sorry  to  see  you  back,  sir." 

"  Why  ?  "  said  he :  "  that  is  not  in  your  usual 
style  of  kind  feeling,  Jenny." 

"  Oh,  sir !  I  think  it  is  a  very  bad  sign  for  any 
one  to  return  who  has  once  said  good-by." 

Mrs.  Courtenay  did  not  hear  this  silly  remark  of 
Jenny's ;  but  Edith  did,  and,  feeling  shocked  by  her 
superstitious  folly,  requested  her  not  to  repeat  such 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  233 

nonsense  before  the  children,  to  impress  their  young 
minds  so  painfully. 

The  following  day,  Mr.  Courtenay  sailed.  Al- 
though Edith  made  all  exertion  to  keep  calm,  yet, 
when  the  door  closed  upon  him,  she  felt  chilled  to 
the  heart,  and,  running  to  her  chamber,  threw  her- 
self on  her  bed,  and  burst  into  an  agony  of  tears. 
Her  power  to  support  the  change  of  prospects  for 
the  winter  seerned  to  have  forsaken  her.  She  re- 
mained some  time  nearly  exhausted  ;  but  God, 
whose  purposes  are  far  beyond  human  ken,  saw 
fit  to  inspire  her,  from  the  depths  of  his  wisdom, 
with  sudden  fortitude.  She  dashed  the  tears  from 
her  eyes,  braced  her  nerves  to  meet  her  mother  and 
the  children,  and  resolutely  entered  upon  the  em- 
ployments of  the  day. 

It  was  within  a  week  after  Mr.  Courtenay  sailed, 
when  Edith  was  suddenly  summoned  by  Mrs.  Hale, 
as  her  husband  was  evidently  worse. 

When  she  entered  the  room,  she  observed  the 
change  in  the  sick  man's  appearance.  He  appeared 
glad  to  see  her,  though  hardly  able  to  speak.  A 
clergyman  had  been  with  him.  His  mind  seemed 
solemnized,  and  perfectly  prepared  for  the  event, 
which  was  evidently  very  near.  In  broken  accents, 
he  thanked  his  young  friend  for  all  her  devoted 
kindness  to  him,  and  hoped  for  a  re-union  in  a 
"  better  world." 

When  she  called  the  next  day,  he  had  been  dead 
several  hours. 

20* 


234  EDITH; 

Mrs.  Hale  told  her,  on  returning  the  watch,  that 
her  husband's  eyes  had  been  directed  towards  it  as 
long  as  he  could  see.  "  It  has  been,"  she  observed, 
"  a  great  comfort  to  him  through  the  autumn  ;  has 
cheered  many  hours,  which  would  otherwise  have 
been  very  dreary.  The  geranium  and  rosebush, 
Miss  Dacres,  he  begged  you  would  accept  as  his 
last  gift."  The  poor  woman  was  quite  overcome. 
Edith  pressed  her  hand,  deeply  touched  by  her  man- 
ner, and  the  remembrance  of  her  humble  friend's 
kind  thoughts  of  her  in  his  last  hours. 

Mrs.  Courtenay  had  decided  to  instruct  her  two 
daughters  during  the  winter  ;  and  Edith  had  volun- 
teered instruction  in  drawing  and  music.  Of  course, 
this  occupied  much  of  their  time  ;  but  the  evenings 
were  often  very  sad.  There  were  frequent  storms 
of  snow,  which,  with  heavy  gales  of  wind  sweeping 
round  the  house,  made  the  two  lonely  beings  look  in 
each  other's  faces  for  comfort,  as  the  hours  dragged 
wearily  along. 

An  occasional  sleigh-ride  was  all  the  amusement 
they  had,  except  the  visits  of  the  neighbors,  who 
were  very  kindly  attentive,  and  solicitous  to  enliven 
their  solitude  ;  but,  at  those  periods  when  society 
would  have  been  most  acceptable,  the  roads  were 
often  impassable,  and  their  friends  were  obliged  to 
remain  within  the  shelter  of  their  own  homes. 

As  the  year  approached  its  close,  Caroline  and 
Marion  seemed  rather  disconsolate  at  the  remem- 
brance of  England  and  its  time-honored  festivities. 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  235 

Christmas  was  very  little  regarded  in  D ;  few 

persons  celebrated  it ;  and  the  day  would  have 
passed  at  Mrs.  Courtenay's  like  other  days,  but  for 
Jenny's  thoughtful  decoration  of  the  windows  with 
wreaths  of  evergreen,  and  her  lamentations,  that, 
"  for  the  first  time,  no  mistletoe-bough  could  be 
found  for  the  kitchen." 

"  A  merry  Christmas,  dear  mamma  and  Edith  !  " 
said  each  child  when  the  morning  arrived :  but 
where  the  merriment  was,  or  whence  it  should  come, 
no  one  knew ;  for  the  elder  members  of  the  family 
were  in  spirit  far  away. 

"  Still,"  said  Mrs.  Courtenay,  "  we  are  all  in  good 
health ;  and  this  is  abundant  cause  for  gratitude,  if 
not  for  more  joyous  feelings." 

"  Will  New  Year's  Day  bring  us  any  gifts,  9o 
you  think  ?  "  inquired  Marion. 

"  I  do  not  believe  it  will,  my  child  ;  for  I  cannot 
afford  to  make  presents  now.  We  must  wait,  there- 
fore, until  papa  returns  with  his  curiosities." 

On  the  1st  of  January,  18 — ,  the  two  young 
girls  wished  each  other  a  "  happy  New  Year  "  in  a 
melancholy  tone  ;  and,  in  spite  of  all  their  efforts, 
the  big  tears  rolled  over  their  cheeks.  "  So  differ- 
ent," they  exclaimed,  "  from  last  year  !  Then  we 
had  a  nice  warm  fire  to  dress  by;  now  we  are  so 
cold !  Oh,  how  my  fingers  ache !  Mamma  and 
sister  will  be  so  dull  too  !  " 

"  I  wish,"  said  Caroline  impatiently,  "  the  day 
was  over.  But  we  will  go  and  kiss  them."  Off 


£36  EDITH; 

they  ran,  and  were  clasped  in  a  warm  embrace  by 
both.  They  looked  a  little  more  cheerful  as  they 
heard  Edith's  kind  congratulations;  waited  for  her 
to  finish  her  toilet,  and  then  founded  towards  the 
parlor.  "What  a  surprise  awaited  them  !  How  they 
danced  and  capered  for  joy,  as  they  observed  nume- 
rous beautiful  English  toys,  books,  and  fancy  arti- 
cles, spread  on  the  piano  ! 

"  Where  did  they  come  from  ?  are  they  for  us  ?  " 
exclaimed  both  children.  Why,  mamma  said  there 
would  be  no  presents  on  New  Year's  Day." 

"  The  box  which  contained  these  gifts,"  Edith 
said,  "  arrived  only  yesterday.  Fortunately,  you 
were  both  out.  They  came  from  England  by  a 
London  ship  :  they  were  sent  by  Grandmamma  Har- 
court,  Margaret,  and  Mr.  Leslie.  Of  course,  they 
were  not  expected  ;  and  mamma  was  correct  in  say- 
ing she  did  not  think  there  would  be  any  presents." 

The  two  girls  were  delighted  beyond  description. 
There  was  a  dress  for  Jenny,  beautiful  gifts  for  their 
mother  and  Edith,  and  so  many  books  !  What  hap- 
piness in  reading  them  aloud  would  be  theirs  for  a 
long,  long  time  ! 

Mrs.  Courtenay  looked  more  than  usually  cheerful 
in  seeing  her  children  so  delighted.  They  thought 
not  of  cold :  their  only  regret  was,  papa  and  Edward 
were  not  with  them  to  share  their  joy ;  but  they 
should  write,  and  tell  them  every  thing. 

When  the  first  tumult  was  over,  Edith  approached 
Mrs.  Courtenay  with  a  box.  "  This,"  said  she, 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  837 

"contains  a  gift  I  know,  dear  mamma,  you  will 
prize."  On  opening  it,  Mrs.  Courtenay  perceived 
two  beautiful  frames,  —  one  enclosing  a  miniature 
view  of  Milton  Church  and  its  graveyard  j  the  other, 
a  small  basket,  in  which  were  delicately  arranged 
the  flowers,  grass,  &c.,  from  the  graves  of  Ellen  and 
Emma,  which  had  been  gathered  in  their  last  walk 
to  the  sacred  spot. 

The  poor  mother's  heart  was  full:  she  turned 
very  pale.  Edith  feared  she  had  touched  a  chord 
which  would  vibrate  too  acutely ;  but,  in  a  few  mo- 
ments, a  smile  played  round  Mrs.  Courtenay's  lips ; 
and,  pressing  Edith  fondly  in  her  arms,  she  mur- 
mured, "  My  thoughtful,  darling  girl !  how  can  I 
sufficiently  thank  you  ?  Was  there  ever  any  one  so 
blessed  as  I  am  in  having  you  ?  O  my  child  !  may 
God  reward  your  devotion  to  me  !  These  gems  will 
to-day  bring  before  my  thoughts,  with  more  than 
usual  vividness,  my  English  home.  That  church, 
those  withered  flowers,  —  how  fraught  with  sad  re- 
membrances !  Yet,  associated  with  your  affection, 
dearest  Edith,  a  halo  seems  to  surround  them." 

The  young  Courtenays  were  conscientious  chil- 
dren, and,  on  retiring  for  the  night,  were  fully 
aware  they  had  commenced  the  day  in  a  very  wrong 
spirit.  Tears  were  in  Marion's  eyes  as  she  said, 
"  Caroline,  we  were  wicked  this  morning  to  be  so 
cross.  It  has  been  in  my  mind  several  times  during 
the  day,  and  I  have  longed  to  tell  mamma  how  I 


238  EDITH; 

fretted  about  the  cold ;  but  I  did  not  like  to  disturb 
her.  What  shall  we  do?" 

"  I  think  J  was  much  worse  than  you,"  replied 
Caroline ;  "  for  I  am  older,  and  I  wished  the  day 
over,  —  a  day  which  has  proved  so  happy  a  one. 
But,  oh  dear  !  how  hard  it  is  to  be  good  1  It  would 
not  be  kind  to  distress  mamma  to-night,  —  Edith  is 
reading  to  her :  but  we  will  tell  the  whole  to-mor- 
row ;  and  do  let  us  try  to  behave  better  in  future." 

With  this  wise  resolve,  they  were  soon  asleep. 
The  next  morning,  they  went  to  Mrs.  Hale's  with  a 
book  for  each  of  the  boys.  The  poor  little  fellows 
were  delighted :  it  was  a  ray  of  sunshine  in  their 
sad  home. 

Edith  had  not  heard  from  Eliza  Sedley  for  a  long 
time ;  and  her  letters  from  Arthur  had  been  irregu- 
lar, from  the  length  of  passages  at  that  season.  This 
added  to  her  feelings  of  gloom ;  and  very  often  her 
eyelids  trembled  with  the  tears  she  could  not  allow 
to  fall  on  her  cheeks  :  for  her  mother  had  shown  so 
much  more  firmness  than  she  had  expected,  had 
been  so  unnaturally  calm  the  day  her  husband  sailed, 
that  Edith  feared,  by  any  indulgence  before  her, 
to  awaken  her  subdued  feelings. 

It  was-  a  cold,  bleak  morning  in  the  latter  part  of 
March,  that  news  came  of  Mr.  Courtenay's  arrival 
in  Malta,  "  his  health  as  good  as  usual,  Edward  in 
fine  spirits.  It  was  not  possible  to  name  any  time 
when  he  might  be  expected  home  ;  but  he  hoped  in 
the  early  summer." 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  239 

There  were  other  letters  also,  which  announced 
the  death  of  Mr.  Leslie.  It  was  addressed  to  Mrs. 
Courtenay,  that  she  might  break  the  intelligence  to 
Edith,  who  had  only  a  note  enclosed  from  Arthur, 
briefly  stating  that  his  father's  death  was  very  sud- 
den, —  that  all  particulars  must  be  deferred  until  the 
family  were  more  tranquil. 

The  shock  was  very  great  to  Edith.  She  never 
thought  the  indisposition  of  which  Arthur  had  writ- 
ten was  any  cause  of  alarm,  because,  in  succeeding 
letters,  there  had  been  but  slight  allusions  to  it. 
This  might  have  been  done  to  spare  her  any  addition- 
al anxiety  ;  and  in  that  light  she  appreciated  it. 

Let  us  feel  as  we  may;  let  joy  attend  our  steps, 
or  sorrow  darken  our  path,  —  time  speeds  on.  The 
sun  pursues  his  daily  course,  apparently  unmindful 
of  individual  feeling;  but  the  record  is  on  high. 
Our  sorrows  are  not  forgotten ;  our  joyous  emotions 
are  all  registered ;  and  we  often  feel  a  confidence  to 
pursue  our  recurring  duties,  we  hardly  know  why. 
It  was  so  with  Edith  and  Mrs.  Courtenay :  one  re- 
joiced in  the  safety  of  her  husband,  the  other 
grieved  at  her  lover's  affliction  ;  but  both  met  the 
daily  claims  of  those  around  them  calmly  and  faith- 
fully. Mrs.  Courtenay  repaid  Edith's  attention  to 
her  by  unceasing  devotion,  and  a  delicate  refinement 
of  tenderness  in  all  her  actions ;  never  invading  the 
privacy  of  her  sorrow,  but  watching  every  opportu- 
nity to  testify  her  entire  sympathy,  her  deep  affec- 
tion. She  realized,  in  its  broadest  sense,  the  sacrifice 


240  EDITH; 

Edith  must  have  made  in  leaving  England  ;  how 
much  she  owed  her  for  her  unwearying  tenderness 
at  sea ;  how  much,  since  her  residence  in  the  Unit- 
ed States,  for  her  interest  in  the  children's  improve- 
ment, and  the  uncomplaining  spirit  with  which  she 
bore  her  separation  from  Arthur,  even  at  a  time 
when  her  presence  would  have  been  such  a  comfort 
to  him.  But,  far  from  each  other  as  they  were, 
Edith  shared,  in  the  depths  of  her  heart,  the  affliction 
of  her  lover;  and  the  tender  pathos  of  her  letters 
told  how  affectionate  was  her  sympathy  with  himself 
and  his  sis.ters.  Could  the  winds  have  wafted  to 
him  the  sighs  she  breathed,  the  prayers  she  offered 
for  his  restoration  to  tranquillity,  he  would  have 
blessed  the  strength  of  her  affection :  it  would  have 
lent  its  aid  to  support  him. 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  241 


CHAPTER     XXXIV. 


"  They  had  told  him  tales  of  the  sunny  lands 

Which  rose  o'er  the  Indian  seas ; 
Where  gold  shone  sparkling  from  river  sands, 

And  strange  fruit  bent  the  trees : 
They  had  lured  him  away  from  his  father's  hearth, 
With  its  tones  of  love  and  its  voice  of  mirth." 


BY  the  next  arrival  from  England,  Edith  learned 
that  Mr.  Leslie  had  appeared  languid  and  feverish 
for  some  days  before  his  death,  though  apparently 
but  little  worse  than  for  many  previous  weeks.  At 
last  he  was  attacked  by  paralysis,  which,  ere  many 
hours,  terminated  his  existence. 

Arthur  wrote  with  great  feeling  of  his  loss,  —  of 
the  affliction  it  caused  his  sisters  and  Mrs.  Leslie. 
The  latter  had  never  failed  in  her  attentions,  while 
his  father  required  any  thing  to  be  done.  Her  ex- 
ertions had  been  so  perfectly  unfaltering,  her  gentle- 
ness so  soothing,  that  they  all  entertained  the  highest 
respect  for  her. 

Mr.  Leslie  had  provided  very  handsomely  for  her 
in  his  will ;  and  Arthur  requested  her  to  remain  at 
Glendale  :  but  this  she  had  declined,  and  would  pro- 

21 


EDITH 


bably  return  to  London  in  a  few  weeks.  He  was 
deeply  immersed  now  in  business,  taking  possession 
of  the  farm  as  its  future  master.  He  spoke  earnestly 
of  his  hopes  of  a  re-union  with  Edith.  She  knew 
he  would  come  to  New  England  when  possible  ;  if 
not  for  some  time,  she  should  patiently  wait,  know- 
ing all  would,  with  him,  be  the  result  of  good  judg- 
ment and  strong  affection. 

Not  long  after  the  arrival  of  this  letter,  she  was 
in  Boston,  executing  some  commissions  for  her  mo- 
ther, and,  in  passing  through  one  of  the  streets, 
met  a  lady  looking  very  pale,  but  bearing  the  traces 
of  much  beauty,  and  still  in  early  youth.  There 
was  something  in  the  earnest  blue  eyes  and  noble 
brow  which  suggested  associations  that  were  painful, 
she  could  not  tell  why.  The  lady  stopped,  and,  in 
a  tremulous  voice,  said,  — 

"  Edith  Dacres  !  "  She  started,  gazed  at  her,  and 
almost  shrieked,  — 

"  Fanny  Gordon  !  " 

"  No,"  said  she,  with  a  faint  smile  :  "  Mrs.  Tal- 
bot." 

They  were  both  much  agitated.  It  was  some  se- 
conds ere  they  spoke  another  word.  At  length 
Fanny  said,  "Go  with  me  to  my  lodgings,  that  I 
may  briefly  explain  the  mystery  of  my  being  here, 
the  cause,  &c.  You  need  have  no  fears,  Edith." 

There  was  such  an  air  of  candor  and  self-respect 
about  her,  that  Edith  felt  assured  all  was  right 
within.  The  tale  was  soon  told."  When  Fanny  left 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  243 

school  in  the  manner  she  did  (by  bribing  a  servant 
to  unfasten  the  gate),  it  was  to  meet  a  lover.  They 
very  foolishly,  as  she  acknowledged,  went  immedi- 
ately to  Scotland  ;  were  married.  Lieut.  Talbot  was 
an  officer  in  the  army  under  orders  for  India ;  and, 
determining  not  to  go  without  her,  she  rashly  con- 
sented to  the  step  which,  she  was  aware,  would  ex- 
pose her  conduct  to  the  imputation  of  more  than 
imprudence.  They  remained  in  retirement  until 
time  for  the  embarkation ;  Fanny  never  leaving  her 
lodgings,  except  to  purchase  clothing  for  the  voyage. 
Her  husband,  fortunately,  had  property  independently 
of  his  pay,  by  which  she  could  be  furnished  with  all 
the  requirements  for  a  long  voyage.  During  this 
brief  period,  she  knew  nothing  of  her  parents  or 
what  might  be  their  feelings,  but,  with  the  thought- 
lessness of  youth  and  the  carelessness  of  an  undis- 
ciplined mind,  sailed  for  India,  without  any  attempt 
to  inform  them  of  her  fate  or  receive  their  forgive- 
ness. 

Long  before  she  reached  her  port  of  destination, 
remorse .  for  this  want  of  filial  confidence  over- 
whelmed her;  and,  but  for  the  un deviating  atten- 
tions of  her  husband,  she  had  been  perfectly  misera- 
ble. There  were  visions  of  her  invalid  mother, 
suffering  for  her  misconduct ;  her  stern  father's 
indignation  at  her  apparent  contempt  for  all  rules  of 
propriety  in  her  elopement ;  until,  at  times,  her  re- 
flections were  hardly  to  be  borne. 

She  had  not  been  long  in  India  before  the  climate 


£44  EDITH; 

made  ravages  in  her  naturally  fine'  constitution.  Her 
husband  effected  an  exchange  for  the  British  Pro- 
vinces. They  returned  to  England;  and,  having 
already  communicated  her  marriage  to  her  parents 
by  letters,  she  sought  them  immediately  upon  her 
arrival,  with  deep  contrition  for  the  sorrow  she  had 
caused  them.  She  was  forgiven  ;  "  and,"  as  she 
continued,  "  peace  was  restored  to  my  mind,  which, 
under  other  circumstances,  I  had  never  known.  O 
Edith !  there  is  no  love  like  a  mother's,  no  sin  great- 
er than  disobedience.  We  embarked  for  Halifax. 
When  near,  as  was  supposed,  our  destined  haven,  — 
for  the  weather  was  very  foggy,  —  the  ship  sprung  a 
leak.  We  made  for  the  nearest  port,  which  proved 
to  be  Portland  ;  from  whence  we  came  here,  to  go,  as 
soon  as  possible,  to  Nova  Scotia.  We  shall  sail  in  a 
few  days ;  and  I  am  thankful,  dear  Edith,  for  the 
event,  which,  by  sending  us  into  other  than  our  ori- 
ginal port,  should  have  permitted  me  to  see  you 
once  more." 

Edith  could  hardly  restrain  her  impatience  suffi- 
ciently to  permit  Mrs.  Talbot  to  conclude  her  narra- 
tive, so  anxious  was  she  to  ask  several  questions. 
When  the  last  sentence  was  finished,  instead  of 
expressing  sympathy  with  her  friend  in  the  trials 
through  which  she  had  passed,  she  abruptly  inquired, 
"  Did  you  ever  know  a  Mr.  Henderson  in  India,  — 
an  Englishman  by  birth,  but  who  has  lived  for  a  few 
years  in  Smyrna  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Henderson  ?     Assuredly  I  did.     He  was  the 


OR,    THE   LIGHT    OF    HOME.  245 

charm  of  our  little  society,  —  so  refined,  highly  edu- 
cated, and  so  gentlemanly !  But,  Edith,  where  did 
you  know  any  thing  of  Mr.  Henderson  ?  and  why  do 
you  ask  me  about  him  ?  " 

"  Oh ! "  said  Edith,  "  you  are,  you  must  be,  the 
Mrs.  Talbot  of  whom  he  talked  so  much  ;  and  how 
dull  I  have  been,  not  sooner  to  have  thought  of 
you ! " 

Fanny  looked  bewildered,  until  Edith  told  the 
history  of  Mr.  Henderson's  visit  at  Mr.  Courtenay's, 
his  long  conversations  about  her,  his  admiration  of 
her  talents,  and  the  fascination  of  her  manner. 

"  Yes,  yes !  "  exclaimed  Fanny  :  "  my  husband 
used  to  look  a  little  irritated  sometimes  when  Mr. 
Henderson  was  so  very  polite :  but  wholly  without 
cause  ;  for,  if  I  did  occasionally  appear  like  Fanny 
Gordon,  I  was  always,  at  heart,  Mrs.  Talbot.  When 
I  eloped  from  a  boarding-school,  I  committed  a 
serious  indiscretion ;  but,  if  I  flirted  now  I  am  a 
wife,  I  should  commit  little  less  than  a  crime.  In 
fact,  Edith,  I  had  almost  forgotten  Mr.  Henderson ; 
though  he  now  returns  to  my  memory  as  a  very 
agreeable  person." 

The  two  friends  had  related  to  each  other  all  that 
could  interest,  and  separated  with  a  promise  from 

Fanny  that  she  would  visit  D the  next  day,  with 

her  husband,  to  say  farewell.  They  came,  but  only 
for  an  hour  or  two,  as  they  had  been  requested  to  be 
ready  to  sail  on  the  morrow. 


246  EDITH; 

As  Edith  looked  in  Fanny's  face,  she  could  not 
help  expressing  her  regret  at  her  loss  of  color. 

"  Oh !  say  nothing  of  that,  Edith :  a  cold  climate 
will  soon  restore  my  bloom ;  but  it  will  still  take 
some  time  to  banish  from  my  mind  the  sunny  memo- 
ries of  my  girlhood  which  come  thronging  around 
me,  and  to  restore  my  self-respect  for  the  anxiety  I 
cost  my  parents  and  friends  by  my  imprudence. 
Were  it  not  for  Charles's  kindness  "  (looking  affec- 
tionately at  her  husband,  who  was  engaged  in  con- 
versation with  Mrs.  Courtenay),  "  I  should  not  even 
now  be  very  cheerful.  But  he  has  great  firmness  :  he 
has  improved  me  very  much.  I  often  call  to  mind 
the  remark  you  made  at  school :  '  There  are  elements 
of  a  fine  character  in  Fanny  Gordon,  and  I  trust  yet 
for  a  development  of  some  good.'  But,  Edith,  the 
fault  in  my  parents  was  loving  me  too  well ;  from 
which  cause,  I  knew  no  will  but  my  own :  I  can  say 
no  more." 

Mrs.  Courtenay  was  quite  pleased  with  both  Edith's 
friends.  She  found  Mr.  Talbot  well-informed,  gen- 
tlemanly, and  agreeable ;  while  the  contrast  between 
the  reckless,  headstrong  girl  at  Elms  Gate,  and  the 
quiet,  unaffected  woman  before  her,  was  so  great  as 
to  fill  Edith  with  wonder,  and  increase  the  interest 
with  which  she  looked  upon  the  pleasant  companion 
of  her  school-days. 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  247 


CHAPTER    XXXV. 


'  lie  should  have  died  in  his  own  loved  land, 

With  friends  and  kindred  near  him ; 
Not  have  perished  thus,  on  a  foreign  strand, 

With  no  thought  save  of  Heaven  to  cheer  him. 
But  -what  recks  it  now?    Is  his  sleep  less  sound, 

In  the  isle  where  the- wild  winds  swept  him, 
Than  if  home's  green  turf  his  grave  had  bound, 

Or  the  hearts  he  loved  had  wept  him?  " 


THE  middle  of  April  found  the  spring  far  in  advance 
of  the  usual  season,  and  widely  different  from  that  of 
the  previous  year.  The  young  grass  was  of  an  eme- 
rald green.  Already  a  few  hepaticas  had  appeared : 
in  the  woods,  already  was  seen  abundantly  the  lovely 
epigaea,  that  sweet  flower  so  associated  with  the  Pil- 
grims, as  the  earliest  harbinger  of  returning  warmth 
and  reviving  vegetation  to  those  desolate  strangers 
on  that  storm-beaten  coast. 

Edith  and  her  mother,  among  their  simple  plea- 
sures, often  towards  evening,  the  period  of  calmest 
thought,  indulged  in  a  walk.  The  two  girls  usually 
accompanied  them,  their  favorite  stroll  being  towards 
the  beach,  the  bold  rocks  on  the  shore  always  sub- 
ject for  admiration  and  wonder ;  for  there  are  few 


248  EDITH; 

such  in  England.  And  they  would  often  continue 
gazing  on  these,  and  on  the  ocean,  as  the  tide  rolled 
in,  until  their  minds  were  filled  with  the  deep  sense 
of  infinity  which  the  restless  motion  and  the  mur- 
muring sound  ever  bring  to  the  thoughtful  spirit. 

In  one  of  those  walks,  they  met,  one  evening,  a 
gentleman  with  whom  they  were  acquainted,  and,  as 
usual,  inquired,  "  Have  there  been  any  arrivals  to- 
day?" 

"  I  believe,"  answered  Mr.  P.,  "  there  is  one  from 
the  Mediterranean;  but  the  letters  had  not  been 
delivered  when  I  left  Boston." 

Mrs.  Courtenay  seemed  unusually  excited,  and, 
grasping  Edith's  arm,  said,  "  I  feel  extremely  anx- 
ious to  learn  what  tidings  this  ship  brings :  it  may 
announce  the  time  of  Mr.  Courtenay's  leaving 
Malta." 

Edith  looked  at  her  mother  affectionately,  and,  in 
her  usually  tender  manner,  said, — 

"  Do  not  be  impatient,  mamma :  to-morrow  will 
certainly  bring  us  letters,  and  to-morrow  will  soon 
be  here."  She  breathed  forth  these  last  words  with 
a  touching  and  tremulous  earnestness  unaccountable 
to  herself;  but,  from  the  moment  the  gentleman  had 
mentioned  the  arrival  of  a  ship  from  the  Mediter- 
ranean, there  had  been  sadness  at  her  heart. 

The  evening  was  coming  on,  and  the  clouds  gather- 
ing as  if  for  a  change  of  weather  :  the  air  was  chill. 
She  wrapped  her  mother's  shawl  closely  about  her ; 
and,  taking  the  hand  of  Marion,  they  hurried 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  249 

homeward,  the  two  girls  in  fine  spirits  from  the  walk 
and  sea-breeze.  The  evening  was  spent  cheerfully ; 
for  Edith  endeavored  to  shake  off  the  gloomy  feeling 
that  was  stealing  over  her,  as  if  the  wing  of  some 
bird  of  evil  omen  had  swept  by  her.  Mrs.  Lester 
passed  an  hour  with  them ;  and,  when  she  left,  it 
was  with  a  promise  on  Mrs.  Courtenay's  part  to 
return  the  visit  the  next  evening.  Edith  followed 
her  to  the  door ;  and  as  she  saw  the  clouds  had 
rolled  away  to  the  eastward,  and  the  bright  stars  were 
glittering  in  the  heavens,  the  clear  sky  quite  cheered 
her.  She  gazed  at  it  with  holy  awe  for  a  moment : 
a  few  prayerful  words  were  on  her  lips.  She  re- 
turned to  the  parlor :  her  mother's  countenance  wore 
an  expression  of  deep  seriousness,  as  it  always  did 
when  she  expected  letters.  Jenny,  when  she  came 
in  with  the  night-candles,  seemed  to  loiter  about  the 
room  ;  and  Edith,  alarmed  by  the  idea  that  she  would 
give  utterance  to  some  of  her  prognostics,  more  than 
usually  frequent  of  late,  advised  her  mother  to  retire. 
When  they  met  in  the  morning,  both  looked  weary 
and  careworn :  neither  seemed  desirous  of  conversa- 
tion. But,  as  soon  as  the  morning  religious  ser- 
vices were  over,  and  breakfast  finished,  they  com- 
menced the  lessons  with  the  children ;  when  Edith, 
suddenly  starting  from  her  seat,  exclaimed,  "  There 
is  a  sound  of  carriage-wheels  on  the  gravel-walk  ! 
Some  one  has  arrived,  perhaps  with  letters !  I  will 
go  and  see  :  sit  still,  mamma,  do,  till  I  return.  Her 
heart  throbbed  almost  audibly  as  she  left  the  room ; 


250  EDITH; 

an  indefinable  sense  of  oppression  was  on  her:  but  she 
went  towards  the  stable,  whence  came  two  gentle- 
men, whom  she  recognized  as  intimate  friends  of  Mr. 
Courtenay.  She  sprang  forward,  and  hastily  said, 
"  Have  you  any  news  for  Mrs.  Courtenay  ?  " 

A  dead  silence  for  a  moment. 

"  Speak,  sir  !  oh,  for  God's  sake,  speak  !  I  read 
in  your  looks  that  you  bring  sad  tidings." 

The  elder  gentleman  took  her  hand,  and,  grasping 
it  as  if  in  agony,  said,  in  a  hollow  tone,  "I  have 
come  to  tell  you  that  Mr.  Courtenay  is  dead ! " 

A  cry  of  deep  anguish  burst  from  Edith's  lips. 
"  Dead  !  dead  !  O  mamma !  mamma  and  her  chil- 
dren !  how  can  I  break  this  overwhelming  affliction 
to  them  ?  "  She  spoke  not  again  :  her  brain  seemed 
on  fire.  The  crushing  of  her  mother's  heart,  borne 
down  by  such  a  weight  of  woe,  —  oh !  how  was  it  to 
be  endured  ?  how  was  she  to  support  the  sight  of  her 
grief  ? 

She  staggered  with  the  confusion  of  all  these 
rending  thoughts,  and  was  led  into  the  parlor,  in  the 
centre  of  which  stood  Mrs.  Courtenay,  rigid  as  mar- 
ble, her  hands  upraised  and  clasped,  as  if  in  suppli- 
cation to  Heaven  for  pity. 

Jenny  and  the  two  children  were  in  tears.  They 
had  heard  Edith's  shriek,  and  knew  some  dreadful 
tale  had  been  told.  Mrs.  Courtenay  tried  to  gain  the 
door ;  but  her  feet  seemed  rooted  to  the  spot,  till 
Edith  reached  her,  when  she  fell  senseless  in  her 
arms. 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  251 

She  was  conveyed  to  her  chamber,  and,  for  an 
hour,  gave  but  the  faintest  signs  of  life.  Edith  and 
her  daughters  hung  over  her  in  a  state  of  feeling  not 
to  be  described.  Mrs.  Lester  soon  arrived,  and  their 
united  efforts  succeeded  in  restoring  animation ;  but 
her  mind  wandered,  as  if  terror-stricken  by  some 
awful  event  which  she  could  not  clearly  remem- 
ber. 

Edith  gazed  on  her  mother's  face  with  deep  ear- 
nestness, hoping  she  would  ask  some  question,  from 
which  she  could  gather  a  ray  of  hope  that  reason 
was  returning ;  but  the  same  rigidity  of  features,  the 
same  unnatural  wildness  in  her  eyes,  continued,  and 
no  coherent  words  escaped  her  lips.  The  two  girls 
clung  round  Edith  in  such  an  agony  of  grief,  that  her 
heart  was  almost  broken  as  she  looked  from  the  mother 
to  them.  She  wrung  her  hands  in  actual  despair  at 
the  prospect  before  her :  not  a  being  but  Mrs.  Les- 
ter on  whom  she  could  call  for  aid  or  advice  ;  and 
how  small  would  be  the  portion  of  time  she  could 
allow  her  !  * 

She  removed  the  children  from  their  mother's 
presence,  and  then  went  below  to  see  the  gentlemen, 
and  inquire  the  circumstances  of  Mr.  Courtenay's 
death.  From  them  she  learned  that  his  business 
had  very  much  exposed  him  to  the  weather.  In  the 
early  part  of  February,  he  had  taken  a  violent  cold, 
which  increased  to  lung-fever,  and  terminated  his 
life,  after  an  illness  of  ten  days.  Letters  had  been 
received  from  a  friend,  at  whose  house  he  was  ill, 


252  EDITH; 

stating  all  the  facts,  and  giving  assurance  that  he 
had  received  every  attention  which  kind  feeling 
could  suggest,  the  best  medical  advice,  and  the 
most  devoted  attendance  from  his  son. 

There  were  letters  from  Edward  to  his  mother, 
expressive  of  the  most  tender  affection  for  her  and 
his  sisters.  He  was  to  remain  in  the  house  of  Gran- 
ville  and  Co.  for  a  time,  until  he  should  learn  his 
mother's  wishes.  These  letters  Edith  read,  in  order 
to  inform  the  two  gentlemen  if  any  thing  was  to  be 
done  in  which  they  could  be  of  assistance.  They 
took  leave  with  many  expressions  of  sympathy ;  and 
Edith  returned  to  her  mother.  Mrs.  Lester's  kind- 
ness was  of  the  utmost  value  to  her.  She  offered  to 
remain  that  night.  Together  they  watched  by  the 
bedside  of  the  poor  sufferer,  and,  towards  morning, 
had  the  comfort  of  seeing  her  sleep. 

Days  passed  ;  each  successive  one  adding  to  Edith's 
anxieties,  and  wasting  her  strength  in  constant  watch- 
fulness of  her  mother  and  the  children.  The  former 
continued  very  ill  for  a  week,  but,  at  the  end  of  that 
time,  was  able  to  sit  up,  take  some  slight  nourish- 
ment, and  read  her  son's  letters.  She  was  very 
calm  ;  but  her  hollow  cheek  and  sunken  eye  told 
the  tale  of  her  internal  suffering.  Edith  often  knelt 
by  her,  bathing  her  hands  in  her  warm  tears,  or 
soothing  her,  in  this  dark  hour,  by  gentle  words  of 
comfort.  But  how  could  she  point  to  the  future  as 
offering  any  cheering  prospects  ?  She  kept  from 
her  the  knowledge  that  Mr.  Courtenay,  in  his  last 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  253 

illness,  grieved  so  much  at  the  separation  from  his 
wife  and  children,  and,  by  these  painful  regrets, 
aggravated  his  disease.  Mr.  Morgan  had  informed 
her  of  this,  and  advised  her  to  conceal,  as  far  as 
possible,  every  thing  which  could  increase  the  sor- 
row of  the  bereaved  one  ;  and,  as  Mrs.  Courtenay 
asked  very  few  questions,  it  was  not  a  difficult 
task. 

When  able  to  see  any  one  out  of  the  family,  she 
was  visited  by  Mr.  Harrison,  the  clergyman  of 
D ,  who  was  truly  the  embodiment  of  Gold- 
smith's village  pastor.  His  presence  seemed  to  dif- 
fuse tranquillity  around  ;  and  the  children  learned 
to  watch  for  his  step,  in  the  belief  their  mother 
would  be  better  after  seeing  him.  His  spirit  was  so 
gentle,  his  words  of  comfort  so  hopeful,  his  faith 
so  fervent,  it  was  impossible  to  be  in  his  presence 
without  feeling  its  sanctifying  influence.  His  words 
fell  on  the  stricken  heart  like  dew  upon  the  parched 
earth. 

Caroline  and  Marion  often  stood  by  him,  gazing 
earnestly  in  his  face,  as  he  would  relate  to  them 
incidents  of  his  early  life,  when  he  struggled,  with 
his  widowed  mother,  to  earn  a  scanty  support  for 
his  little  brothers.  The  trials  they  had  endured 
were  borne  calmly  and  heroically,  because  they  had 
always  a  firm  reliance  on  the  goodness  of  God,  and 
his  promise  to  be  a  father  to  the  fatherless.  Many 
a  day  had  dawned  with  hardly  money  enough  in 
the  house  to  furnish  one  meal.  His  sorrowing  mo- 

22 


254  EDITH; 

ther  would  smile  through  her  tears,  and  say,  "  Keep 
up  your  spirits,  my  son  :  we  are  not  forsaken."  And 
it  proved  so  ;  for  her  patient  endurance,  her  reli- 
gious faith,  had  their  reward  ;  and,  ere  the  close  of 
life,  she  saw  her  sons  amply  provided  for  by  their 
honest  industry,  and  was  herself  blessed  by  a  com- 
petence. 

The  season  was  one  of  peculiar  loveliness.  Every 
thing  in  the  vegetable  world  seemed  rejoicing  in 
renewed  existence.  To  many  minds  this  would 
have  been  doubly  sad  ;  but  not  so  to  Edith  or  her 
mother,  to  whom  spring  appeared  as  a  type  of 
immortality ;  and,  if  denied  the  sad  privilege  of 
visiting  Mr.  Courtenay's  grave,  adorned  as  it  now 
must  be  in  the  beautiful  island  where  he  rested,  it 
seemed  not  a  place  of  cold  banishment',  but  of  sweet 
repose.  They  could  not  help  feeling  that  he  would 
have  a  consciousness  of  the  soft  airs  which  played 
around  him  ;  that  he  would  hear  the  song  of  the 
birds,  and  love  each  opening  leaf  and  flower,  as 
they  did. 

However  visionary  this  might  seem  to  others,  it 
was  comfort  to  them  ;  and  often,  as  twilight  stole 
softly  over  the  landscape,  blending  all  things  in  such 
beautiful  harmony,  their  hearts,  in  unison,  would 
breathe  forth  an  aspiration  of  love  to  the  memory  of 
the  dear  departed. 

We  have  said  but  little  of  Jenny  during  this 
period  of  sorrow  ;  but  her  unobtrusive  excellence 
must  not  be  forgotten.  She  was,  if  possible,  more 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  255 

devoted  than  ever  to  her  mistress  and  Edith  ;  antici- 
pating every  wish,  —  creeping  noiselessly  about  the 
house,  lest  her  footsteps  would  disturb  its  sad  qui- 
etude. She  was  often  in  tears  ;  and  the  children 
frequently  sat  with  her  for  an  hour,  delighting  to 
talk  of  their  father,  and  listening  to  instances  of  his 
benevolence  which  occurred  before  they  were  old 
enough  to  remember  them. 

She  could  not  resist  saying  to  Edith,  "  Do  you 
remember  telling  me  I  was  foolish  to  talk  as  I  did, 
when  my  master  came  back,  the  day  he  expected 
to  sail  ?  You  called  it  superstitious  nonsense  ;  but 
it  proved  a  bad  sign. 

"  No  proof  at  all,  Jenny,  that  you  were  otherwise 
than  superstitious.  You  cannot  believe  your  saying 
what  you  did  had  any  thing  to  do  with  the  death  of 
Mr.  Courtenay." 

"  I  don't  know  any  thing  about  that :  I  only  say 
it  was  a  bad  sign,  and  I  shall  stick  to  it." 

"  Ah,  well,  Jenny !  you  must,  I  presume,  have 
your  own  way,  even  at  the  expense  of  your  personal 
comfort ;  but  do  not  prophesy  any  more  sorrows,  I 
beg,  for  mamma's  sake." 

"  Suppose  I  do,  Miss  Edith :  if  there's  nothing 
in  them,  it's  no  matter." 

Edith  smiled  at  Jenny's  logic,  and  left  her.  As 
she  closed  the  door,  Jenny  murmured  to  herself,  "  I 
wonder  what  she  calls  the  weight  on  her  spirits  that 
she  had  the  night  before  we  heard  of  master's  death. 
That's  not  superstition,  I  suppose,  but  a  presentiment. 


256  EDITH  ; 

Superstition  for  the  kitchen,  and  presentiments  for 
the  parlor  !  Still,  if  she  is  an  unbeliever,  I  wish 
there  were  more  Miss  Ediths  in  the  world.  What 
could  we  have  done  without  her  ?  So  devoted  to 
her  mother,  so  fond  of  the  two  young  ladies,  and  so 
gentle  with  me,  —  except  when  I  talk  of  signs  ;  and 
then  how  she  looks  at  me  with  those  great  black 
eyes  !  " 

Edith  was  not  aware,  in  all  probability,  that  the 
depression  under  which  she  sometimes  labored  had 
in  it  a  slight  tendency  to  superstition,  or,  at  least,  to 
the  indulgence  of  a  belief,  that,  often  before  any 
great  event  occurs,  we  seem  to  have  a  foreshadowing 
of  it. 

Not  many  weeks  after  the  news  of  Mr.  Courte- 
nay's  death,  letters  were  received  from  Mr.  Hender- 
son. He  'had  learned  the  sad  tidings  in  Philadelphia, 
and  immediately  wrote  Mrs.  Courtenay,  expressing 
himself  with  the  deepest  sympathy  in  her  affliction, 
and  with  equal  tenderness  for  the  memory  of  her 
husband's  great  virtues,  —  the  irreparable  loss  he  must 
be  to  his  family,  as  guide,  example,  and  protector. 
.  He  dwelt  -with  much  earnestness  on  his  happy  visit 

at  D ;  gratefully  acknowledging  the  kindness  he 

had  'received,  and  hoping  he  might  see  the  family 
once  more  before  he  sailed  for  Smyrna.  Edith  was 
gratified  by  a  respectful  remembrance  of  herself. 
Associating  Mr.  Henderson  with  many  pleasant  re- 
miniscences, she  joined  her  mother  in  admiration  of 
his  talents  and  excellent  feelings  whenever  he  was 


Oil,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  257 

mentioned.  She  was  commissioned  to  reply  to  his 
letters,  as  Mrs.  Courtenay  was  unequal  to  the  effort. 
She  described  in  glowing  colors  her  meeting  with 
Mrs.  Talbot ;  the  additional  pleasure  she  had  in 
finding  the  being  in  whom  she  had  felt  so  strong  an 
interest  was  a  friend  of  her  school-days ;  and  con- 
cluded by  hoping  Mr.  Henderson  might  be  able  to 
visit  D again  before  he  left  the  United  States. 


22* 


258  EDIT  H 


CHAPTER    XXXVI. 


"  But  thou,  0  Hope !  with  eyes  so  fair, 
What  was  thy  delighted  measure? 
For  still  it  whispered  promised  pleasure, 
And  hade  the  lovely  scenes  in  distance  hail." 


"  MY  dear  Edith,"  said  Mrs.  Courtenay,  one  morn- 
ing,' "  I  feel  as  if  it  were  necessary  for  me  to  rouse 
myself  to  something  like  thought  for  the  future, 
dark  and  gloomy  as  it  now  appears.  A  widow !  " 
The  oppression  at  her  heart  for  an  instant  checked 
the  utterance  of  another  syllable.  In  that  one  word 
was  concentrated  all  of  human  affliction ;  but  she 
struggled  to  proceed. 

"  I-  am  left,  I  presume,  with  no  property  but  my 
cousin's  legacy ;  as  Mr.  Courtenay  told  me  his  chief 
reason  for  going  to  Malta  was  to  possess  a  certainty 
of  business,  all  his  property  having  been  barely  suf- 
ficient to  pay  his  liabilities  when  he  failed.  His 
creditors,  I  think,  are  all  paid.  This  is,  of  course, 
a  great  comfort  to  me.  No  one,  I  believe,  suffers 
from  his  misfortunes  ;  but  how  are  my  children  and 


OK,    HIE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  259 

myself  to  be  supported  on  my  now  very  small  in- 
come ?  It  is  not  what  it  was  in  England  " 

"  Say  not  another  word,  dearest  mamma !  "  ex- 
claimed Edith,  interrupting  her,  and  throwing  her 
arms  round  her.  "  I  am  rich,  the  undisputed  mis- 
tress of  nearly  ten  thousand  dollars,  now  the  loan  is 
paid.  This  will  do  for  us  all  until  I  am  "  —  married, 
she  would  have  said ;  but  the  recent  lesson  of  the 
uncertainty  of  all  earthly  expectations  checked  the 
word  ere  it  fell  from  her  lips,  and  in  its  place  gushed 
forth  tears  she  could  not  check. 

"  My  noble,  generous  girl,  my  dear  Edith !  I 
never  can  consent  to  that.  But  I  find  I  am  hardly 
able  yet  to  think  very  steadily :  we  will  say  no  more 
at  present." 

"  Mamma,"  said  Marion,  "  what  are  we  to  do 
without  papa  ?  There  is  nobody  to  take  care  of  us." 

"  Yes,  my  child,  there  is.  It  was  God's  pleasure, 
for  wise  purposes,  to  take  your  father;  but  He  is 
left  to  us,  and  has  promised  to  watch  over  the  widow 
and  orphan :  we  must  all  trust  in  Him.  Have  no 
fears,  Marion :  we  shall  be  provided  for,  —  taken  care 
of,  as  you  say.  Do  you  remember  the  interesting 
things  Mr.  Harrison  told  you,  —  of  his  mother's 
trust,  and  his  own  industry  ?  Caroline  and  yourself 
must  be  studious,  and  make  every  exertion  to  acquire 
a  good  education ;  for  the  time  may  come  when  all 
your  capabilities  will  be  called  into  action.  We 
must  all  try  to  relinquish  some  of  the  indulgences 


860  EDITH; 

we  had  during  papa's  life.  They  were  not  nume- 
rous then  ;  but  they  must  be  fewer  now." 

The  family  returned  to  the  quiet  routine  of  every- 
day life  with  feelings  subdued,  but  no  longer  gloomy 
or  desponding.  Mrs.  Courtenay  had  disciplined  her 
mind  to  a  degree  of  patient  submission  beautiful  to 
witness.  She  might  be  daily  seen  instructing  her 
children,  conversing  tranquilly  with  Edith,  or  re- 
peating her  orders  to  Jenny,  with  such  external 
calmness  as  to  impress  awe  upon  those  who  witnessed 
her  efforts. 

Mr.  Harrison  often  came  to  see  her ;  and  the  at- 
tentions of  Mrs.  Lester,  as  well  as  of  many  other 
neighbors,  were  undeviating :  in  fact,  her  situation 
had  called  forth  so  much  sympathy  and  tenderness, 
that  she  would  often  say,  "  I  could  not  have  found 
warmer  friends  in  my  native  land.  How  I  shall 
always  love  and  respect  the  warm-hearted  Ameri- 
cans ! " 

On  one  occasion,  when  Mrs.  Courtenay  and  Edith 
were  with  the  children  in  her  chamber,  Jenny  came 
hastily  in,  saying,  "  Miss  Edith,  some  one  wishes  to 
see  you  in  the  parlor ;  and,  superstition  or  no  super- 
stition, I  think  it's  a  good  sign." 

"  Who  is  it  ?  "  said  Edith. 

"  A  stranger,"  replied  Jenny,  and  closed  the  door. 

"  Mamma,  I  think  it  must  be  Mr.  Henderson : 
you  know  he  promised  to  see  us,  if  possible,  before 
his  return."  And,  as  Edith  pronounced  these  words, 
a  slight  blush  overspread  her  cheeks  at  the  remem- 


OK,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  261 

brance  of  the  interest  she  knew  he  had  felt  for  her. 
She  hardly  wished  to  see  him,  but  knew  she  must. 
So,  summoning  all  her  courage  to  her  aid,  she  darted 
down  stairs,  opened  the  parlor  door,  and,  with 
a  wild  scream  of  delight,  was  clasped  in  Arthur's 
arms. 


EDITH 


CHAPTER    XXXVII. 


"I  must  go  o'er  the  sea  to  other  lands : 
It  is  the  call  of  duty.    But  fear  not : 
I  shall  return ;  and  then  our  loves  are  sure. 
Dream  not  of  danger  on  the  sea :  one  Power 
Protects  us  always,  and  the  honest  heart 
Fears  not  the  tempest." 


IN  order  to  account  for  Arthur's  sudden  appearance 

in  D ,  it  will  be  necessary  to  return  to  England 

and  to  Glendale. 

After  he  graduated,  which  he  did  with  the  first 
honors  in  his  class,  he  deferred  for  a  time  the 
commencement  of  a  profession,  to  devote  himself  to 
his  father,  whose  increasing  indisposition  required 
constant  attention,  even  before  the  symptoms  became 
alarming. 

The  circumstances  connected  with  Mr.  Leslie's 
death  have  already  been  related.  Soon  after  the  last 
duties  had  been  paid,  and  Arthur  became  heir  to  the 
estate  of  Glendale,  his  tenantry,  in  token  of  their 
attachment,  assembled  to  "do  him  honor,"  as  they 
termed  it,  in  front  of  the  house,  and,  with  uncovered 
heads,  offered  condolence  for  his  parent's  loss,  and 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  263 

would  have  evinced,  by  outward  demonstrations,  their 
joy  at  his  accession  to  the  property;  but  he  stepped 
forward,  and,  after  gracefully  thanking  them  for  their 
evidence  of  kind  feeling,  checked  all  attempts  at 
noisy  manifestations  of  pleasure.  He  told  them  the 
loss  of  his  father  was  irreparable.  That  father  had 
been  his  guide  and  counsellor  during  his  boyhood, 
his  friend  and  companion  in  youth.  In  his  footsteps 
he  hoped  to  follow,  in  endeavoring  to  promote  the 
happiness  of  his  tenantry.  Their  wants  he  would  be 
ever  ready  to  relieve,  their  grievances  to  redress,  to 
the  utmost  of  his  power.  They  should  be  allowed 
all  the  privileges  consistent  with  the  preservation  of 
good  order  ;  and,  in  return,  he  should  require  ob- 
servance of  his  rules,  —  temperance,  orderly  con- 
duct, careful  cultivation  of  their  little  farms,  &c. 
Any  opposed  to  his  regulations  had  liberty  to  go 
whenever  they  pleased. 

He  bowed,  and  entered' the  house.  Instead  of  the 
loud  cheer  and  boisterous  shout,  there  fell  upon  his 
ear,  as  he  retired,  a  murmured  sound  of  "  God  bless 
the  young  landlord  ! " 

From  that  period,  Arthur  was  deeply  engaged  in 
business,  with  little  time  for  rest ;  though  many  a 
fond  feeling  was  wafted  towards  the  Western  shores, 
and  Edith's  image  ever  mingled  with  his  dreams. 
To  accomplish  settling  the  estate  was  now  doubly 
important,  as,  at  the  close  of  his  labors,  he  hoped  to 
go  to  the  United  States,  unless  some  probability  oc- 
curred of  the  Courtenays'  return  to  England.  He 


264  EDITH; 

was  almost  disheartened  when  Edith's  letter  an- 
nounced Mr.  Courtenay's  departure  for  the  Mediter- 
ranean. He  was  well  aware,  that,  under  these 
circumstances,  she  would  never  leave  her  mother. 
He  also  knew  the  weight  of  anxiety  which  would 
devolve  on  her,  when  she  felt  herself  the  only  per- 
son to  whom  Mrs.  Courtenay  could  look  for  sympa- 
thy, or  indeed  companionship,  during  her  husband's 
absence.  His  father's  aifairs  were  left  in  very  good 
order ;  but  there  was  a  vast  amount  of  business  to 
arrange,  new  leases  to  be  made  out,  deeds  to  be  exa- 
mined, legacies  to  be  paid,  his  sister's  property  to  be 
re-invested,  Mrs.  Leslie's  jointure  to  be  remitted, 
&c.,  all  requiring  time  and  personal  attention. 

Mrs.  Harcourt  he  saw  whenever  he  was  able  to 
leave  home ;  but  that  did  not  often  occur.  She  sent 
for  him  one  day,  informing  him  of  some  papers  in 
her  possession  which  she  thought  might  be  of  im- 
portance to  Mrs.  Courtenay.  On  his  arrival  in  Mil- 
ton, she  showed  him  a  package,  which  appeared  to 
contain  a  legal  document,  accompanied  by  some  let- 
ters ;  but,  of  course,  he  could  learn  nothing  from  their 
direction.  In  answer  to  his  immediate  inquiries,  he 
learned  that  the  next  ship  would  sail  for  Boston  in 
not  less  than  a  fortnight  (it  must  be  remembered 
there  were  no  steamers,  and  but  few  packets,  then)  ; 
and  he  took  charge  of  the  package,  to  forward  it, 
with  his  own  letters,  when  the  time  should  arrive. 

His  business  matters  were  drawing  to  a  close :  the 
amount  of  property  for  himself  was  thirty  thousand 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  '265 

pounds,  independently  of  Glendale  Farm ;  for  each 
of  his  sisters,  ten  thousand  pounds.  Mary  was  to  be 
married  at  the  expiration  of  her  mourning,  as  she 
resolutely  refused  to  think  of  a  wedding  while  her 
heart  grieved,  as  it  then  did,  at  the  recent  death  of 
her  father. 

At  this  time,  the  sad  news  of  Mr.  Courtenay's 
death  reached  England  by  letters  to  Mr.  Granville, 
who  had  arrived  but  recently. 

Arthur  was  inexpressibly  shocked :  deep  commi- 
seration for  Mrs.  Courtenay,  anxiety  almost  amount- 
ing to  agony  for  Edith,  determined  him  to  go  imme- 
diately to  Boston. 

Mrs.  Leslie  had  not  left  Glendale ;  and  she  con- 
sented to  remain  with  Mary  and  Matilda  until 
Arthur's  return,  which  he  thought  would  not  be 
prolonged  beyond  four  months.  He  procured  an 
agent  to  take  care  of  his  estate ;  bade  farewell  to  Mrs. 
Harcourt  and  Margaret  Granville,  who  loaded  him 
with  letters,  messages,  &c. ;  and  sailed  in  the  next 
ship. 

The  passage  was  short  for  those  times,  —  twenty- 
three  days.  On  landing,  he  learned  from  the  British 
consul  where  Mrs.  Courtenay's  house  was  situated, 
and,  with  the  speed  of  a  lover,  soon  reached  it. 

Jenny  admitted  him,  and  would  have  screamed 
but  for  his  raising  his  hand  towards  her  mouth,  and 
putting  a  finger  on  his  own  lips.  "Dear,  dear!" 
she  whispered  as  he  entered  the  parlor :  "  what  will 
Miss  Edith  say  ?  I've  had  a  bright  feeling  all  this 

23 


266  EDITH; 

morning :  I  knew  something  would  happen.  I  do 
wonder  if  she  will  call  this  superstition  or  presenti- 
ment, —  my  feeling  so  bright !  " 

"  Hush,  Jenny !  and  run  for  Miss  Dacres :  say 
not  a  word  as  to  who  it  is." 

We  have  seen  how  faithfully  she  executed  her 
mission.  To  account  for  Jenny's  "  bright  feeling," 
we  must  say,  it  probably  was  the  result  of  clear  air 
and  warm  sunshine,  which  for  some  days  had  been 
strangers ;  but  poor  Jenny,  since  her  arrival  at 

D ,  had  indulged  more  than  ever  in  signs  and 

omens  about  every  thing. 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  267 


CHAPTER    XXXVIII. 


'  It  is  not  while  beauty  and  youth  are  thine  own, 

And  thy  cheeks  unprofaned  by  a  tear, 
That  the  fervor  and  faith  of  a  soul  can  be  known, 

To  which  time  would  but  make  thee  more  dear. 
Oh !  the  heart  that  has  truly  loved  never  forgets, 

But  as  truly  loves  on  to  the  close  j 
As  the  sunflower  turns  on  her  god,  when  he  sets, 

The  same  look  which  she  turned  when  he  rose." 


IT  was  some  time  ere  Edith  recovered  from  the  agi- 
tation into  which  she  had  been  thrown  by  Arthur's 
sudden  appearance.  She  was  pale,  even  to  ghastli- 
ness,  and  so  completely  overcome  as  to  be  scarcely 
able  to  speak.  Her  feelings,  at  length,  found  relief 
in  a  shower  of  tears.  Arthur  was  distressed  at  the 
effect  of  his  unexpected  arrival :  but,  as  he  told  her, 
he  had  no  other  course  to  pursue,  unless  he  waite'd 
for  the  next  packet ;  "  and  I  do  believe,  Edith,  you 
would  prefer  to  be  a  little  alarmed,  than  have  my 
appearance  delayed  a  fortnight  later,  —  how  is  it  ?  " 
She  smiled  a  reply.  Could  he  have  fully  realized  the 
joy,  the  relief,  his  presence  brought,  he  would  have 
been  amply  repaid  for  all  he  had  endured  when  sepa- 
rated from  her. 


268  EDITH; 

"  But,  Arthur,"  she  soon  said,  "  in  our  happiness, 
we  must  not  forget  mamma's  sorrow.  I  will  go  to 
her,  and  bring  her  to  you.  She  is  sadly  altered  ;  but 
you  will  not,  I  know,  appear  to  notice  it." 

Poor  Mrs.  Courtenay  was  indeed  altered.  Her 
deep  mourning-dress  and  widow's  cap,  while  they 
changed  her  whole  appearance,  threw  a  great  interest 
over  her ;  and  as  she  entered  the  room,  leaning  on 
Edith's  arm,  Arthur  thought  he  had  never  seen  a 
figure  which  impressed  him  with  such  reverence. 
He  kissed  her  pale  cheek  with  deep  emotion ;  and, 
while  his  eyes  glistened  with  the  moisture  he  wished 
not  to  check,  he  gently  and  affectionately  led  her 
thoughts  to  England,  to  Mrs.  Harcourt,  and  the 
many  letters  for  herself  and  daughters. 

He  then  presented  the  package,  which  seemed  to 
excite  Mrs.  Courtenay's  surprise.  Unable  to  surmise 
its  contents,  she  requested  Edith  to  open  the  docu- 
ment, while  she  read  the  letter. 

In  a  moment,  a  great  change  passed  over  her 
face.  She  trembled,  yet  not  as  in  distress.  Ere  she 
could  have  finished  the  letter,  Edith  threw  down  the 
paper,  and,  clasping  her  mother's  neck,  exclaimed, 
in  a  tumult  of  joy,  "  Mamma !  God  be  praised  for  all 
his  goodness  to  us !  " 

Mrs.  Courtenay  looked  up  with  an  expression  of 
intense  gratitude,  as  she  said,  reverently,  — 

"  Oh,  may  I  indeed  be  grateful,  humble  as  I  ought 
to  be  !  From  this  letter,  I  learn  the  death  of  my 
aunt,  whom  I  have  not  seen  for  many,  many  years. 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  269 

She  died  unmarried,  and  has  left  me  five  thousand 
pounds,  as  her  nearest  relative,  —  a  bestowment  as 
wholly  unexpected  to  me  as  if  she  had  never  lived ; 
for  she  disapproved  my  having  married  an  Ameri- 
can." This  turn  of  fortune  was  most  gratefully 
received  by  all :  mingled,  however,  with  the  joy, 
was  the  memory  of  Mr.  Courtenay.  How  happy  he 
would  have  been,  could  he  have  lived  to  see  his 
family  so  independent  as  it  regarded  property,  — 
anxiety  for  the  future  removed !  But  they  all  meekly 
bowed  in  submission  to  Him  who  gave  the  blow,  in 
the  firm  belief  it  was  directed  by  unerring  Wisdom 
and  Goodness.  Events  had  crowded  so  rapidly 
on  our  friends,  that,  towards  evening,  all  looked 
wearied  by  excitement  and  deep  thoughts. 

Edith  seemed  almost  bewildered  with  joy;  and, 
as  she  saw  Arthur  looking  earnestly  at  her,  she 
more  than  once  said,  "  Are  the  events  of  to-day  a 
dream  ?  " 

"  I  am  sure  I  hope  not,"  he  said ;  "  for,  after  all 
the  anxiety  we  both  have  had,  the  tedious  days  that 
have  passed  since  that  sad  morning  when  I  saw  you 
on  the  deck  of  the  '  Galatea,'  the  weary  night-watches 
I  had  while  you  were  at  sea,  if  my  present  happiness 
be  a  dream,  Edith,  I  pray  not  to  awaken." 

After  the  lapse  of  a  few  days,  when  the  minds  of 
Edith  and  her  mother  were  tranquillized,  Arthur 
consulted  their  wishes  about  an  immediate  return  to 
England.  It  was  his  desire  to  be  married  before 
leaving  the  United  States,  and  that  the  family  should 

28* 


270  EDITH; 

accompany  him.  Mrs.  Courtenay  could  not  hasten 
her  removal,  as  a  ship  was  expected  from  Malta,  by 
which  her  husband's  papers,  &c.,  were  to  be  sent. 
Then  the  furniture  was  to  be  sold,  the  house  to  be 
relinquished,  &c.,  which  could  not  be  done  until  after 
the  arrival  of  the  ship.  Edith  would  not  consent  to 
leave  her  mother  in  America  ;  nor  would  she  be  mar- 
ried at  present,  out  of  respect  to  the  memory  of  Mr. 
Courtenay,  who  had  been  as  a  parent  to  her. 

Arthur  was  desirous  of  seeing  some  of  the  world- 
renowned  scenery  of  the  United  States.  After 
various  arrangements,  it  was  at  length  decided  he 
should  go  to  Washington,  Cincinnati,  &c.,  and  return 
by  the  Falls  of  Niagara,  stopping  a  short  time  in  New 
York.  The  season  was  beautiful  for  the  tour ;  and, 
while  he  descanted  to  Edith  upon  the  sublime  and 
beautiful  scenery  they  should  so  much  enjoy  to- 
gether, she  said,  "I  know,  dear  Arthur,  all  the 
delight  it  would  give  me ;  I  can  imagine  no  higher 
enjoyment  than  to  be  with  you  amid  such  rich  and 
varied  scenes ;  I  know  I  need  the  change,  for  I  have 
had  much  care  and  sorrow  for  one  so  young :  but 
the  other  side  of  the  picture  is  my  widowed  mother, 
with  only  her  two  children  at  home  ;  or,  indeed,  only 
one,  if  Caroline  went  with  us.  You  must  not  urge 
it,  as  I  do  so  reluctantly  refuse  any  request  which 
you  make  ;  but  my  sense  of  duty  tells  me  I  ought  to 
forego  the  enjoyment  of  this  tour,  for  the  sake  of  one 
who  has  been  so  deeply  afflicted,  and  who  still  needs 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME. 

me.  Arthur  said  no  more  :  he  respected  this  stern 
idea  of  right. 

He  remained  a  week  or  two  at  D ,  during 

which  Edith,  her  mother,  and  the  children  accompa- 
nied him  in  drives  all  round  the  beautiful  country 
near  Boston,  which  hitherto  they  had  had  few  oppor- 
tunities of  enjoying.  Jenny  had  her  share  of  plea- 
sure also ;  for  Arthur  brought  a  man-servant  with 
him,  who  was  often  her  attendant.  She  well  de- 
served to  be  remembered  in  the  way  of  kindness ; 
for  there  was  no  pause  in  her  devotedness  to  Mrs. 
Courtenay  or  the  children. 

They  all  visited  Nahant,  —  explored  its  various 
claims  to  wonder  and  admiration.  Arthur's  love  of 
nature  was  not  less  enthusiastic  than  Edith's  ;  and 
he  could  hardly  find  words  to  express  his  emo- 
tions as  he  looked  upon  the  grandeur  of  the  scenery 
around  him.  Every  day,  the  family  were  more  and 
more  impressed  by  the  beauty  of  the  views  in  New 
England. 

Arthur  often  rallied  Edith  on  her  strong  American 
principles,  her  admiration  of  the  bold  rocks,  the 
ocean,  &c.  Sometimes  he  playfully  told  her,  he 
feared  she  would  regret  leaving  them.  She  looked 
at  him  with  a  serene,  steadfast  look,  and  uttered,  in 
her  sweet  voice,  the  single  word,  "Glendale."  It 
spoke  volumes ;  and  his  eyes  beamed  on  her  with 
perfect  happiness  at  the  prospect  of  her  sharing  with 
him  that  home,  so  dear  to  both  as  the  scene  of  their 
early  lives  ;  where  together,  in  the  freshness  of  youth, 


EDITH; 

they  had  enjoyed  so  much  in  rambling  through 
woods,  gathering  wild  flowers,  or  lingering  on  the 
grassy  banks  of  the  brooks,  watching  their  miniature 
falls  over  the  rocky  beds.  The  visits  to  the  cottages 
were  to  be  renewed :  they  should  be  abundantly  able 
to  assist  the  worthy  poor,  to  aid  the  sick,  and  comfort 
the  afflicted. 

There  were  visions  of  the  library  in  winter  even- 
ings, the  cheerful  fire,  the  closed  windows  and  drawn 
curtains,  the  book,  and  the  evening  service,  with  the 
household  around  them  ;  and,  above  all,  there  would 
be,  Arthur  knew,  humble  and  grateful  hearts  bow- 
ing at  the  throne  of  the  Giver  of  all  good.  In  all 
these  anticipations,  Mrs.  Courtenay,  the  two  girls, 
and  Jenny  had  their  places :  no  happiness  could  be 
very  great  unshared  by  them.  Arthur  still  loitered 

in  D until  after  the  ship  had  arrived  from  the 

Mediterranean ;  and  then  there  was  so  much  to  enjoy 
in  his  walks,  drives,  and  horseback -rides,  he  almost 
dreaded  to  leave. 

The  beautiful  weather,  so  different  from  the  fogs 
among  which  he  had  lived,  —  how  he  enjoyed  it ! 
In  an  excursion,  one  morning,  when  every  thing 
in  nature  seemed  so  much  in  harmony  with  their 
feelings,  Edith  inquired  if  he  had  abandoned  his 
plan  of  studying  for  the  ministry. 

"I  fear  I  must,  as,  when  my  thoughts  were 
directed  towards  the  church,  I  had  no  idea  I  should 
so  soon  be  the  master  of  Glendale,  and  have  so  many 
cares  and  duties  to  perform.  It  now  appears  to  me 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  273 

impossible  to  become  a  clergyman,  and  retain  the 
guardianship  of  my  tenantry,  without  neglecting  one 
of  the  claims  on  my  time  and  attention :  add  to 
which,  there  are  so  many  young  clergymen  to  whom 
the  living  of  Glendale  would  be  valuable,  that  I  now 
should  feel  it  wrong  to  think  of  it  as  my  future  field 
of  labor.  Together,  Edith,  we  can  do  a  great  deal 
for  the  happiness  of  those  around  us,  and,  by  our 
example,  reclaim  the  erring,  strengthen  the  weak, 
and  encourage  the  timid ;  while  the  rector  of  Glen- 
dale  will,  I  hope,  be  one,  who,  — 

'  In  duty  prompt  at  every  call,'  — 
Will  — 

1  Watch  and  weep  and  pray  and  feel  for  all ; 
Try  every  art ;  reprove  each  dull  delay  ; 
Allure  to  brighter  worlds,  and  lead  the  way.' 

I  remember,  Goldsmith's  picture  of  a  country  cler- 
gyman is  your  beau-ideal  of  human  excellence ;  and 
I  feel  as  you  do  about  it." 

"  There  are  such  men,"  said  Edith,  as  the  tears 

rose  to  her  eyes  :  "  the  good  clergyman  of  D is 

one.  Could  you  have  witnessed  all  his  tenderness 
to  mamma. during  the  first  hours  of  her  bereavement, 
his  fondness  for  Caroline  and  Marion,  his  efforts  to 
subdue  their  grief,  you  would  love  and  respect  him 
as  I  do.  I  shall  grieve  to  part  with  him,  and  our 
dear,  excellent  Mrs.  Lester." 

"Let  us  hope,  then,  they  may  visit  England,  when 
we  will  both  show  our  grateful  remembrance  of  their 


274  EDITH; 

kindness  in  the  proffered  hospitalities  of  Glendale 
Farm.  It  assuredly  will  be  my  greatest  happiness  to 
prove  my  attachment  to  you  by  showing  respect  to 
all  who,  in  any  way,  lightened  your  anxieties  during 
our  separation." 

"There  have  been  other  things,  Arthur,  which 
have  cheered  me  :  dear  indeed  have  they  been  when 
my  heart  sunk  at  mamma's  grief.  The  miniature 
and  the  ring,  —  talismanic  has  been  their  power 
when  the  wind  howled  in  dismal  tones  round  our 
house  last  winter ;  when  I  thought  of  the  stormy 
ocean  between  us  ;  the  uncertainty  of  our  ever  meet- 
ing again ;  and  witnessed  mamma's  saddened  expres- 
sion, as  she  read  my  thoughts.  I  have  often, 
unperceived  by  her,  kissed  the  ring  ;  and  a  smile  has 
been  on  my  lips,  —  a  bright,  hopeful  feeling  in  my 
heart." 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  275 


CHAPTER    XXXIX. 


'  Flow  on  for  ever  in  thy  glorious  robe 
Of  terror  and  of  beauty ;  yea,  flow  on, 
Unfit t homed  and  resistless!     God  bath' set 
His  rainbow  on  thy  forehead,  and  the  cloud 
Mantled  around  thy  feet.    And  he  doth  give 
Thy  voice  of  thunder  power  to  speak  of  him 
Eternally ;  bidding  the  life  of  man 
Keep  silence,  and  upon  thine  altar  pour 
Incense  of  awe-struck  praise."  —  L.  H.  SIGOURHET. 


ARTHUR  left  D for  his  tour :  there  were  neither 

tears  nor  sighs ;  for  all  were  anxious  he  should  have 
a  privilege  so  valuable,  of  seeing  the  western  cities, 
the  capital  of  the  United  States,  and  the  Falls. 
During  his  absence,  the  family  of  Mrs.  Courtenay 
had  ample  occupation  for  heart  and  hand,  in  prepa- 
rations for  a  sale  of  furniture,  and  the  necessary 
arrangements  for  another  passage  across  the  Atlantic. 
Caroline  and  Marion  had  made  many  pleasant  ac- 
quaintances, and  were  very  popular  with  the  young 
people  of  the  neighborhood.  They  prepared  a  bestow- 
ment  for  all,  on  each  of  which  was  sealed  a  promise 
of  remembrance.  They  were  saddened  by  the 
thought,  they  should  probably  never  meet  again. 


276  EDITH; 

The  melancholy  duty  of  examining  Mr.  Courtenay's 
papers  had  been  performed  before  Arthur  left :  all 
the  business  affairs  were  adjusted,  as  his  clear  head 
and  strong  mind  suggested  many  things  not  likely 
to  occur  to  a  lady. 

The  approaching  departure  of  the  Courtenay  fami- 
ly caused  quite  a  sensation  in  the  beautiful  town 
where  they  had  resided  for  more  than  a  year.  Mrs. 
Courtenay's  benevolence  and  lady-like  dignity  had 
gained  for  her  friends  in  all  classes.  When  first 
among  them,  she  had  contrived,  with  very  limited 
means,  to  assist  the  needy,  to  prepare  little  comforts 
for  the  sick,  &c. ;  and  Edith,  with  her  expressive 
countenance,  and  graceful,  dignified  movements,  her 
gentle  tones  and  patient  ministries,  had  soothed 
many  an  aching  head,  and  whispered  peace  to  many 
a  troubled  heart. 

They  had  come,  mother  and  adopted  daughter,  as 
strangers  in  a  strange  land  ;  they  had  found  warm 
friends  in  the  day  of  sorrow ;  and  they  should  part 
with  deep  regret  on  both  sides.  America  was  the 
land  of  Mr.  Courtenay's  birth :  he  had  loved  his 
country  with  the  enthusiasm  peculiar  to  the  nation, 
and  to  leave  it  for  ever  was  a  trial  to  the  sorrow- 
ing wife  ;  but  the  brief  space  of  happiness  she  had 
enjoyed  with  him  there  was  a  treasured  remem- 
brance. 

Six  weeks  had  passed  since  Arthur  left.  His  let- 
ters were  filled  with  glowing  descriptions  of  all  he 
saw :  his  manly  nature  knew  how  to  appreciate 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  £77 

American  character  and  American  institutions.  He 
saw  prosperity  throughout  the  land,  genuine  and 
noble  independence  in  the  heart. 

He  felt  it  would  be  profanation  to  attempt  a  descrip- 
tion of  the  Falls  of  Niagara :  their  grandeur  was 
overwhelming ;  and,  as  he  expressed  himself,  "  My 
only  feeling  as  regarded  self,  when  I  stood  gazing 
on  this  stupendous  cataract,  was,  how  insignificant 
and  humble  do  I  feel  in  sight  of  this  mighty  mass  of 
waters,  and  the  glorious  scenery  around  !  It  would 
be  needless,  dearest  Edith,  to  speak  further  of  my 
emotions ;  my  mind  is  agitated  and  exhausted :  but 
the  time  will,  I  hope,  come,  when  I  can  converse 
with  you  more  clearly  on  these  wonders." 

Arthur  returned  to  find  every  thing  nearly  ready. 
They  were  to  return  in  the  "  Galatea."  This  would 
be  delightful,  as  Capt.  Henly  still  commanded  her. 

The  most  important  part  was  now  at  hand.  Edith 
had  consented  to  be  married,  as  privately  as  possible, 
a  few  days  before  sailing  :  her  mourning  was  to  be 
laid  aside  for  that  occasion.  Her  birthday  —  her 
nineteenth  —  had  passed  while  Arthur  was  absent, 
or  it  would  have  been  in  accordance  with  romance 
to  have  been  married  on  that  day ;  but  Edith's  life 
had  been  rather  too  full  of  stern  realities  to  feel  dis- 
turbed by  this  deviation  from  novel  rules. 

Jenny  had,  as  usual,  a  fear  of  something ;  and,  as 
she  could  conjure  up  no  real  cause  for  anxiety,  she 
at  length  conjectured  Edith  would  be  married  with 
her  mother's  wedding-ring,  as  she  had  always  seen 

24 


278  EDITH  ; 

her  wear  it.  This,  she  was  certain,  would  be  a  bad 
sign ;  but  Arthur  had  guarded  against  an  omen  so 
disastrous. 

The  morning  dawned  gloriously, — just  such  a 
morning  as  we  sometimes  have  in  August.  A  veil 
of  mist  hung  over  the  landscape,  softening  and  sub- 
duing the  summer  heat,  as  well  as  its  vivid  colors. 

Edith  was  attired  in  a  simple  white  muslin :  her 
beautiful  hair  was  encircled  by  a  wreath  of  orange 
blossoms,  and  shadowed  by  a  veil,  except  upon  the 
brow.  The  two  Courtenays,  who  were  as  sisters  to 
her,  were  to  be  her  only  bridemaids.  Caroline  was 
now  a  tall,  fine-looking  girl. 

Just  before  she  left  the  parlor  for  the  carriage,  she 
called  Arthur  to  look  at  a  book  open  upon  the  table, 
in  which  were  carefully  pressed  some  wild  roses,  and 
under  them  written,  "  My  seventeenth  birthday : 
his  gift."  "  These  flowers,  Arthur,"  she  said,  "  have 
been  my  companions  in  all  my  little  trials,  in  all  my 
great  griefs." 

He  placed  his  arm  round  her,  and  said,  in  tones 
tremulous  from  emotion,  "  Edith,  the  words  I  then 
uttered  I  will  faithfully  indorse." 

Edith  then  turned  to  Caroline  and  Marion,  and, 
presenting  to  each  a  small  package,  said,  "  This  is  in 
remembrance  of  Sister  Edith." 

A  few  friends  accompanied  the  wedding-party  to 

church.  After  the  ceremony,  they  returned  to  D , 

and  then  left  for  several  days  on  a  short  tour.  The 
two  girls  opened  the  packages :  they  were  found  to 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  279 

contain  a  deed  of  gift  for  one  thousand  dollars  each, 
to  be  devoted  to  their  education  under  the  best  in- 
structors. Edith  knew  their  mother's  property 
would  not  allow  very  expensive  instruction  ;  and  it 
was  a  source  of  grateful  pleasure  to  be  thus  enabled 
to  furnish  them  with  money  to  have  the  best  masters 
in  drawing,  music,  and  French.  Jenny  received  a 
present  of  one  hundred  dollars,  in  testimony  of  gra- 
titude for  her  attention  to  Mrs.  Courtenay  and  her- 
self. "  I  give  it  you  in  gold,"  said  Edith,  "  as  you 
have  now,  I  think,  been  sufficiently  long  in  this 
country  to  associate  bright  feelings  with  the  Ame- 
rican eagle." 

On  her  return,  Edith  visited  her  poor  friends, 
making  liberal  donations  to  all  from  Arthur's  purse. 
They  remained  in  the  house  a  day  or  two.  The  fur- 
niture, it  was  decided,  could  be  sold  after  the  family 
left,  as  Mr.  Lester  had  kindly  offered  to  arrange  the 
sale. 

The  day  of  departure  came.  Friends  were  left  on 
the  wharf  whom  they  hardly  dared  hope  to  see  again, 
and  around  whom  clustered  so  many  of  life's  choicest 
sympathies  and  affections,  that  they  could  not  repress 
their  tears. 

As  the  bride  and  bridegroom  stood  on  the  quarter- 
deck, a  murmur  of  admiration  was  heard,  elicited  by 
the  surpassing  loveliness  of  the  one,  and  the  manly 
elegance  of  the  other. 

They  gazed  for  a  long  time  on  the  receding  build- 
ings in  Boston,  the  wharves,  —  Arthur  without  his 


280  EDITH; 

hat,  in  token  of  respect  for  the  people  who  so  kindly 
had  welcomed  his  friends  and  himself  to  the  shores 
of  New  England. 

Little  now  remains  to  be  said.  The  "  Galatea  " 
had  a  delightful  passage.  The  arrival  in  the  Thames 
was  hailed  with  mingled  feelings.  Poor  Mrs.  Cour- 
tenay  rested  her  head  on  Edith's  neck  as  the  ship 
anchored  off  Tilbury  Fort :  the  children  clasped  her 
hands  in  mute  recognition  of  her  sorrow.  Arthur 
begged  her  to  go  below.  He  went  on  shore  to  order 
a  carriage,  and  returned  in  an  hour.  Mrs.  Courte- 
nay  preferred  to  go  to  Mrs.  Harcourt's,  who  was  in 
good  health,  and  Margaret  full  of  joy  at  the  return 
of  her  young  friends. 

When  the  meeting  was  over  in  Milton,  Arthur 
and  Edith  went  immediately  to  Glendale,  having 
previously  despatched  the  man-servant  to  announce 
their  arrival.  As  they  approached  the  village,  the 
church-bells  rang  out  a  marriage-peal.  This  informed 
the  tenantry  of  their  landlord's  return.  They  left 
their  work  to  welcome  the  happy  couple  to  their 
home.  This  time,  Arthur  did  not  refuse  their  con- 
gratulations ;  and  Edith,  bending  her  beautiful  head 
from  the  carriage-window,  kissed  her  hand  to  all. 

Mary,  Matilda,  and  Mrs.  Leslie  were  in  the  hall ; 
and,  after  cordially  embracing  each,  Edith  advanced, 
when  a  fair  girl  suddenly  stepped  from  the  library, 
and  she  was  clasped  to  the  warm  heart  of  Eliza 
Sedley. 

She  had  been  visiting  in  the  neighborhood ;  and 


OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME.  281 

Mary  had  begged  her  to  come  to  Glendale,  as  Edith 
was  so  soon  expected.  Could  aught  have  been  added 
to  her  happiness,  it  was  this  union  with  her  school- 
day  friend,  who  remained  some  time  with  her.  From 
Eliza  she  learned  Mrs.  Lanmeer's  death,  and  many 
interesting  events  connected  with  Elms-gate  House. 

Mary  Leslie  was  soon  married,  as  the  preparations 
for  the  wedding  had  only  been  deferred  until  her 
brother's  return.  She  went  with  Sir  George  to 
Thornton  House,  his  country-seat  in  Devonshire,  to 
pass  the  remainder  of  the  summer.  Matilda  accom- 
panied the  bridal-party,  and  was  to  divide  her  time 
between  her  two  sisters.  Mrs.  Leslie  returned  to 
her  friends  in  London,  under  promise  of  often  visit- 
ing Glendale,  as  if  still  a  home.  Her  attentions  to 
Mary  and  Matilda  during  Arthur's  absence  had  been 
so  uniform,  her  general  deportment  so  marked  by 
dignity  and  refinement,  that  the  household  saw  her 
depart  with  great  regret. 

Mrs.  Courtenay,  with  her  daughters,  very  soon 
removed  to  a  cottage  ornee  in  Glendale,  near  the 
rustic  bridge,  where  Arthur  and  his  wife  still  love 
to  pause,  and  watch  the  stream  falling  over  its  bed  of 
rocks,  as  in  their  early  days.  Edward  Courtenay, 
entirely  cured  of  his  love  of  the  sea,  became,  at 
twenty-one,  a  junior  partner  in  the  house  of  Gran- 
ville  and  Co.,  and  the  husband  of  Margaret. 

We  must  not  forget  our  friend  Jenny,  who,  not- 
withstanding her  omens  and  signs,  was  married  on 
Friday,  and  in  a  heavy  rain  ;  her  husband  elect  telling 


282  EDITH  ;    OR,    THE    LIGHT    OF    HOME. 

her  they  would  break  the  charm  by  proving  a  mar- 
riage could  be  happy,  though  the  wedding-day  was 
one  she  had  hitherto  regarded  with  so  little  favor. 

The  geranium  and  rosebush  bloomed  in  the  green- 
house at  Glendale. 


THE      END. 


